®Ijp  i.  H.  Hill  iCibrani 


Nnrth  (Haroliua  ^tatp  (Tnllpup 

NAY 561 
e46 


S00358164  R 


This  book  is  due  on  the  date 
and  is  subject  to  a  fine   of 
day  thereafter. 


IV  2  8  B84 

iO£C  i  8  1985 


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in  2009  witii  funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/cottagescottagelOOelli 


"7    ' 


CHARLES  R.  SANDERS,  JR. 
Americana-Southeastern  States 
123    Montgomery    Street 
Raleigh,  North  Carolina 


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^'  '^         -'^iWiijifi, 


COTTAGES 


AND 


COTTAGE    LIFE. 


CONTAINING 


PLANS  FOR  COUNTRY  HOUSES, 


ADAPTED  TO  THE  MEANS    AND   WANTS   OF   THE    PEOPLE    OF   THE   UNITED   STATES;   WITH 

DIEECTIONS    FOR    BUILDINa  AND    IMPROVING; 

FOR  THE 

LAYING  OUT  AND  EMBELLISHING  OF  GROUNDS;  WITH 
SOME  SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  IN  THIS  COUNTRY. 


BY   C.  W.    ELLIOTT. 


CINCINNATI: 
H.    W.    DERBY    &    CO.,    PUBLISHERS 

NEVV-YORK  : 
A.    S.    BARNES    &    CO. 

1848. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one 
thousand  eight  hundred  and  forty-eight,  by  C  W.  Elliott,  in  the 
Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court,  for  the  District  of  Ohio. 


CINCINNATI: 
MORGAN    AND    OVEREND,    PRINTERS, 


1  N  T  11  0  I )  I J  c  'r  0  li  Y 
OBSERVATIONS    UrON    BUILDING. 


It  is  not  worth  while  to  attempt  to  state,  in  few 
words,  the  principles  of  architecture,  or  of  landscape 
gardening,  as  an  art.  They  are,  as  yet,  so  indefinite  — 
so  little  more  than  a  feehng  in  the  mind  of  any — 
that  I  have  not  heen  able  to  find  them  written  down. 
There  are  rules  enough  to  guide  a  man  in  building  a 
good  and  comfortable  house,  —  none  that  will  enable 
him  to  Ijuild  a  beautiful,  an  artistic  one.  He  must 
have  the  perception,  —  the  sense  of  beauty  within 
himself. 

It  is  also  true,  that  a  man  may  have  this  sense 
of  beaut}'-,  so  as  to  be  able  to  judge  of  its  expression 
by  others,  without  being  able,  at  a  given  time,  to  ex- 
press it  himself  For  instance,  there  are  hundreds  of 
men  who  can  judge  of  the  plan  of  a  house  submitted 
to  them,  and  judge  correctly  of  its  true  beauty, 
without  being  able  to  make  —  to  combine  —  one  which 
is  at  all  desirable ;  for  one  reason :  because  this  faculty 
is   not   cultivated  in   them   to   that   degree. 

Therefore,  it  is  deshable,  for  every  man  who  is 
about    building,    to    apply   to    a    capable    person    for    a 


iv  I  NTRODnCTION. 

design,  or  to  submit  liis  own  plans  to  such  an  one 
for  correction  and  improvement.  I  may  say,  here, 
what  I  have  spoken  of  before,  —  a  house  may  have  a 
distinctly  good  influence,  —  and  in  this  way;  perhaps, 
it  may,  sooner  or  later,  come  to  the  mind  of  a  care- 
less person,  that  a  house  which  he  is  in  the  habit  of 
seeing,  is  harmonious,  —  that  it  has  about  it  not  only 
convenience,  but  beauty  —  in  its  proportions  —  in  its 
variety  —  in  its  colors  —  and  so  on.  It  is  not  un- 
likely that  he  may  suppose  that,  to  the  occupants  of 
the  house,  its  beauty,  though  a  less  essential  matter, 
is  as  distinctly  a  source  of  pleasure  as  its  convenience ; 
and,  finally,  to  wonder  whether  these  finer  impressions 
are  not  as  desirable,  for  him  also,  as  the  sensations  of 
warmth   and    shelter. 

Now,  any  house,  no  matter  how  mean,  may  have 
all  these  considered.  Good  proportion  may  almost 
always  be  had;  a  pleasing  color  costs  no  more  than 
a  disagreeable  one ;  one  large  and  well-shaped  window 
is   better   and   cheaper   than  two   small   ones. 

In  designing  a  house  for  an  external  efl'ect,  it  will 
very  often  happen  that  convenience  will  be  sacrificed ; 
that  is,  the  outside  will  be  planned,  and  then  the 
inside,  —  which  is  all  wrong.  Now,  here  the  question 
may  be  asked,  and,  perhaps,  it  indirectly  springs  from 
this  — "  In  what  does  the  charm  of  variety  in  a  build- 
ing consist?"  It  is,  possibly,  because  it  suggests  to 
the  looker  that  the  additions,  —  the  gables,  and  wings, 
and  piazzas,   (parts   which   give  this  variety  in  form)  — 


INTRODUCTION.  V 

have  been  made  to  suit  the  wants  and  conveniences 
of  the  family;  —  have  grown  directly  out  of  a  neces- 
sity,—  have  at  their  foundation  an  idea,  an  object  upon 
which  to  rest  securely.  Almost  all  the  gi'oups  of  old 
houses,  which  artists  catch  from  the  stream  of  time, 
are   of  this   character. 

Well,  in  this  lies  a  sentiment;  and  when  these 
different  parts  are  arranged,  so  as  to  be  weU  con- 
trasted and  balanced,  —  not  disposed  sjTumetricaUy,  but 
considered  with  reference  to  beauty,  —  then  it  takes 
shape,   and  becomes  —  style. 

Let  any  one  think  for  a  moment  of  a  new,  fresh- 
looking,  square  house,  set  down  on  a  bare  and  level 
field  —  he  has  no  doubt  seen  a  thousand ;  —  and  let 
him  remember  an  old  country  house,  —  having,  in  itself, 
really  no  more  pretensions  to  beauty,  but  around  which 
the  arching  trees  spread  their  protecting  shades, — 
where  the  honeysucldes  breathe  their  fragances,  —  un- 
der the  eaves  of  which  the  phebes  have  for  generations 
had  their  nests,  —  and  he  Avill,  I  think,  understand  that 
there  is  a  difference.  He  will  see  that  this  last  is 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  lives  that  have  passed 
there ;  —  that  it  tells  a  story  of  birth  and  death,  —  of 
joy  and  soitow,  —  of  stormy  youth  and  quiet  age. 
Then,  if  he  does  understand  this,  let  him  beware  of 
newness;  let  him  shun  spruceness,  which  is  as  contrary 
to  neatness  as  Lucifer  is  to  Gabriel.  How  far  the 
future  should  influence  a  man  in  the  building  of  his 
house,  no   one   can   determme    for    another;  —  these   are 


y,  1  N  TK  ODl'GTI  ON. 

sonio  of  the  considerations.  W  n  Jioiise  is  so  cheaply 
built  as  to  be  intended  only  to  last  one's  own  life  time, 
it  will  almost  necessarily  look  meager,  and  be  meager. 
A  urcat  ])asteboard,  giant's  castle,  -which  the  winds 
rock,  and  tlap  abont  his  ears,  is  no  way  suggestive 
of  sta])ili(y,  and  a  love  of  home.  More  than  this,  it 
needs   constant    repairs,   and  is   not    economical. 

In  a  country  like  this,  where  the  same  property 
^o  rarely  continues  in  a  man's  descendents,  it  is  an 
injudicious  expenditure  to  tie  up  any  considerable  por- 
tion of  an  estate  in  the  dweUing  house;  because,  upon 
the  (lixision  of  property  consequent  at  his  death,  this 
has  so  often  to  be  sold;  —  and,  as  no  one  builds  to 
suit  another,  it  is  almost  always  sold  at  a  gTeat  sacrifice, 
and   the   fortunes   of  one's   "house"  are   literally  lost. 

As  to  the  ornaments  of  a  house,  be  careful  that  they 
are  very  subordinate. 

Large  objects  —  such  as  a  tower,  in  Plate  I  — 
should  be  of  use,  otherwise,  they  will  seem  to  some 
to    be    quite    a    ridiculous    and    unmeaning    waste. 

The  estimated  cost  of  these  plans  is  not  definite, 
and  will  vary  in  different  parts  of  the  country.  In 
the  estimates,  they  are  all  sujiposed  to  be  built  of  wood, 
in  good  style.  Many  of  them  can  be  built  for  less, 
if  a  person  can  learn  how,  in  time.  But  the  unim- 
})ortancc  of  many  of  the  details,  in  these  country  houses, 
should  not  bo  forgotten.  Let  such  parts  as  the  frame, 
the  rool",  the  foundation, — any  thing  whidi  involves 
duration,  —  Ijc  done  well ;    but    whether    th^  door  panels 


INTRODUCTION.  y[[ 

should  be  finished  with  an  o.  g.,  or  a  bead,  or  no 
molding  at  all,  is  comparatively  of  Httle  consequence; — 
and  it  is  these  little  things  which  make  so  many 
cheap    houses    very    dear    ones. 

The  location  should  have  some  influence  upon  the 
style  of  the  house.  It  is  safe,  I  think,  to  say  that 
the  Italian  house  (Plate  V)  is  best  adapted  to  the  ch- 
mate  of  Italy,  and  harmonizes  with  the  shape  of  the 
country,  which  alternates  fi'om  the  graceful  and  beautiful 
to  the  picturesque.  It  is  weU  adapted  to  high,  exposed 
situations,  —  its  broad,  rather  depressed  form  seeming  to 
cling,  as  it  were,  to  the  earth.  Tliis  wiU  be  deemed 
by  some  as  heresy.  The  Swiss  cottage  (Plate  VIII),  with 
its  broad  roof,  sheds  off  both  storms  and  sun;  and,  shel- 
tered by  the  overhanging  rocks,  the  twisted  oaks,  and 
dark  pines,  excites  a  sense  of  security,  which  is  the 
charm  of  home  in  mountainous  countries.  The  EngHsh 
cottage  ( Plate  m )  is  the  abode  of  comfort.  The  smoke 
curls  up  from  its  clustered  chimneys,  from  among  the 
trees,  on  the  borders  of  some  clear  and  rapid  stream; 
or  on  some  wooded  spot,  Avith  its  buck  ground  of  ragged 
hiUs. 

It  seems,  then,  if  any  of  these  styles  are  to  be 
adopted,  the  one  best  suited  to  the  character  of  the 
scenery  should  be  chosen,  and  not  the  one  which  may 
be  the  most  pleasing  as  a  picture.  If  possible,  select  a 
spot  where  trees  are  already  growing,  —  remembering 
how    short    human    life   is. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

Additions,            -..---  209 

Apples,  list  of,           -----             -  221 

Apricot,  list  of,             -             -             -             -             -  -     222 

Building,  observations   on,                 .             .             -             -  m 

Variety  in,         -             -             -             -             -  iv 

Sentiment  in,        -             -             -             -             -  v 

Style  in,      -             -             -             -             -  -         v 

Economy  in,          -              -              -              -              -  vi 

Location  in,       -             -             -             -             -  vii 

Expense  of,           -----  6 

Builders,  character  of,                _             _             -             -  -       53 

Bathing,       -------  55 

Room,     ------  213 

Bee  house,                ------  219 

Hives,       -             -             -             -             -             -  -13 

Blinds,  color  of,        -             -             -             -             -             -  210 

Bower, 219 

Carpenters,     -------     209 

Carriage  way,             ..----  213 

Cellar,  wall,  &c,                 _             -             -             -             -  53 

Ceilings,            -             -             -             -             -             -  -53 

Climbing  plants,        ------  225 

CeUar, 212 

Chimneys,        -             -             -             -             -             -  -     212 

B 


CONTENTS. 


009 


Cherries,  list  of,         - 

Closets,     -             -             -             -             -             -             -  -11 

Colors  of  houses,  -  -  -  -  -  -210 

Conservatory,             -             -             -             -             -             -  Llo 

Flues,      -------  -1- 

Floors,  deadening  of,    -              -              -              -              -              -  LlL 

"  Furring"  off,           ------  111 

Innisliing,                              -----  _i_ 

Flour  beds,      -------  lil-4 

Gardening,  of,          -----             -  -13 

Of  Landscape,              -,            -             -             -  21G 

Labor  of,                  -              -              -              -              -  "21 1 

Garden  seats,            -             -             -             -             -             -  210 

Kitchen, 219 

Green   house,                ------  215 

Grapery,       -------  215 

Grapes,  list  of  hardy,        -----  222 

Grounds,  plan  of,         -----             -  218 

House,  cost  of,            -            -            -            -            -            -  8fi 

Appearance  of,         -             -             -             -             -  2U9 

Additions  to,         -             -             -             -             -  200 

Colors  of,         -----             -  210 

Styles  of,     -             -             -             -             -             -  210 

Ice, 54 

Tool, 210 

Green,          ------  '2lo 

Ice  house,                          -----  54 

KiTCUEN,  plan  of,                          -               -              -               -               -  211 

Garden,     ------  219 

liARUK    ROOM,              -                   -                   -                   -                   -                   -  211 


CONTENTS 


Nectarines,  list  of 

Oven,  .  .  _ 

Orchards, 

Plate  —  Description  of  Plate  I, 

II, 


III, 

IV, 

V, 

VI, 

vn. 

vin. 

IX, 

X, 

XIV, 

Piazzas, 

- 

Pigeon  house, 

- 

Poultry     " 

- 

Peaches,  list  of, 

- 

Pears,         " 

- 

Plums, 

- 

Particulars, 

- 

Quinces,  list  of, 

- 

Rocks,  groups  of. 

- 

Root  house, 

- 

Roses, 

- 

Sliding  closet. 

- 

Stair  way. 

- 

Summer  houses, 

- 

Shrubs,  list  of, 

- 

XI 

222 

212 

219 

1 
13 

34 

43 

68 

90 

97 

121 

133 

211 

218 

211 

219 

219 

221 

222 

222 

210 

222 

215 
219 
•225 

211 
212 
218 
224 


Trees,  list  of  shade, 


223 


Xii  CONTENTS. 

Trees,  list  of  cvcrgrcon,             ...             -  -     *Jli4 

The  01(1   Man  and  his  Daugliter,       -              -              -              -  1-i 

The  Double, •'^O 

Tho  Poulterers,             -             -             -             -             -  -       84 

The  Merchant, 01 

The  Artist, 09 

A'krck  boards,             ,._---  209 

Ventilation,                -             -             -             -             -             -  211 

Vines,  list  of,        ------  --5 


Grape, 


Q90 


Windows,  ......         210 

Walks,  214 

Water, 215 


DESCKIPTION    OF    PLATE    I. 

SCALE SIXTEEN     FEET     TO     ONE     INCH, 

This  is  the  largest  house  in  the  collection,  and  one  of 
a  good  deal  of  pretension.  It  can  in  no  way  be  called 
a  cottage.  It  should  be  built  of  light-colored  stone,  in  a 
substantial  and  elegant  manner. 

The  opening  in  the  Tower  allows  of  a  carriage  Avay, 
and  persons  alight  on  the  recess,  secure  from  rain.  It 
(the  tower)  contains  a  bedroom  twelve  feet  square,  and 
above,  a  room  for  an  observatory,  laboratory,  or  the  like. 
A  concealed  flue  may  be  made  in  the  waE.  Bold  and 
prominent  appendages  like  tliis,  should  now-a-days  always 
answer  some  usefiil  purpose — otherwise  they  seem  an 
affectation.  It  is  beheved  that  this  arch  is  sufficient  to 
sustain  the  weight;  but  a  concealed  circular  arch  may  be 
turned  above  it  if  thought  best.  The  "blocking  course" 
resting  on  the  roof  should  have  openings  left  between  it 
and  the  roof,  say  of  two  inches,  to  let  off  the  water. 


COTTAGES 


AND 


COTTAGE     LIFE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  Tell  us  about  these  pictures,"  said  Mark,  the  oldest  of 
three  little  boys,  "  tell  us  something  about  them." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  two  others  to  their  father,  who  held 
a  small  portfolio,  and  their  faces  brightened  with  eagerness, 
"tell  us,  tell  us." 

"  These  little  drawings  were  made  long,  long  ago,"  said 
the  father,  "  almost  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"  As  little  as  me  ? "  said  Eddy,  the  youngest. 

"  No,"  said  Ben,  who  was  three  inches  taller,  "  not  so 
little   as  you — you   are  too  little." 

"  No,"  said  the  father,  "  I  was  larger  than  any  of  you  — 
nearly  a  man.  In  a  few  years,  my  lads,  you  will  grow  up 
to  be  as  large  as  I  was  then,  and  I  hope  will  make  much 
better  pictures  than  these." 

Little  Eddy's  breast  swelled  with  the  thought,  and  he 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  other  boys,  believing  that  his 
future  size  must  overwhelm  them  with  wonder;  they,  how- 
ever, were  both  absorbed — the  one  with  the  idea  that  his 
father  shoald  ever  have  been  little — the  other  in  a  vague 
speculation  as  to  how  he  became  so  big. 
1 


2  C  (J  T  T  A  fJ  K  S     A  N  U 

"Were  you  a  good  boy?"  asked  Ben,  having  some  uncer- 
tain ix'lief  that  this   was   the   cause  of  all   growth. 

"1  cant  say,'"  replied  the  father,  "much  like  you,  I  think. 
If  grandpa  was  alive,  he  could  tell  you  better  than  1  can.'' 

"Tell  us  about  grandpa,"  said  Mark;  "was  he  your  pa?" 

"Was  he  big,  bigger  than  you?"  asked  Eddy. 

The  little  boys  saw,  in  an  instant,  that  there  was  a 
shadow  over  their  father's  face.  For  a  few  moments  all 
were  silent ;  the  children  held  their  breath.  Upon  Eddy's 
face  there  was  an  inquiring  awe  ;  which  broke  into  beauty, 
like  the  landscape  when  the  sunshine  is  suddenly  poured 
upon   it,  as   his  father  spoke   again,  in   his  customary  tone. 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  was  a  good  many  years  ago  that  we  all 
came  out  from  the  city  —  your  mother,  grandfather,  uncle 
John,  and  I.  Some  of  them,"  he  continued,  as  if  thinking 
aloud,  "  happy,  short  years,  some  long,  and  one  dreary."  He 
looked  at  the  boys,  and  pressed  the  smallest  closer  to  his 
side — "  You  know  but  little  about  a  mother,  Eddy."  Eddy 
put  his  arms  around  his  father's  neck,  and  laid  his  head 
quietly  on  his  shoulder,  feeling  something  at  his  heart,  though 
what,  is  a  mystery. 

"  We  were  all  tired  of  the  town.  The  stir  and  tumult, 
the  emulation  and  struggle  were  no  longer  of  interest,  and 
we  believed  we  could  live  as  usefully,  and  certainly  more 
as  we  wished  to,  out  of  it,  than  in  it." 

"  I  did  not  get  tired  of  it,"  said  Mark,  "  when  I  was 
there." 

"  That  's  where  the  monkeys  are,"  said  Eddy,  "  and  the 
lions  and  tigers  —  Sally  Smith  told  me  so.'" 

"  Yes,  Eddy,  there  are  lions  and  tigers  enough,  and  mon- 
keys too,  and  one  day  you  will  see  more  than  you  wish 
to;  but  we  had   seen   enough,  and   were    glad   to  get  away 


G  O  T  T  A  G  E     L  I  F  E  .  3 

from  it  all,  to  where  the  stream  ran  more  smoothly,  where 
there  were  fewer  rocks    and  eddies." 

"Me?"  said  Eddy,  looking  up  into  his  face. 

"No,  my  boy — you  are  a  good  Eddy;  but  there  are  many 
bad  eddies  in  the  world,  from  which  your  grandfather  and 
all  of  us  were  willing  to  escape." 

"  Well,  tell  us  about  them,  and  about  grandpa,"  said 
Ben. 

"When  you  were  a  boy — almost  a  boy?"  said  Mark. 

"  To-morrow  night,  then,  I  will  tell  you  something  of 
him;  for  it  was  for  him  that  these  pictures  of  houses  were 
made.     Now  I  see  you  are  getting  sleepy.     Good  night. 


C  ( )  T  T  A  G  E  S      A  N  I) 


CHAPTER    II. 

Li;.\\  INC  -Mr.  !>('<>  and  liis  children,  we  will  give,  in  a  more 
continuous  narrative,  some  sketches  and  glimpses  of  the  life 
wliicli  a  family,  having  become  wealthy,  sought  and  found 
in  the  country ;  expecting  there  the  happiness  and  repose 
which  the  town  could  not  yield.  To  those  who  read  for 
novelty  and  excitement,  these  sketches  will,  beyond  all  ques- 
tion, prove  dull  and  uneventful  —  taking  their  hue  from  the 
life  which  is  common  there. 

Mr.  Thomas  Ellison,  a  gentleman  who  had  passed  the 
middle  age  —  that  uncertain  period  — ;  his  daughter,  Grace; 
his  brother  John,  a  bachelor  not  much  his  junior,  be  it  softly 
spoken,  and  his  nephew,  Edward  Lee,  a  sister's  son,  whose 
education  and  fortunes  they  had  made  their  common  charge, 
made  up  this  family.  They  had  all  seen  too  much  of  the 
town  to  rest  within  its  shadow  at  a  suburban  villa. 

"  Far  away  from  it,  where  the  rugged  mountains  rose 
behind  the  woody  plain,  where  the  broad  river  swept  by  in 
front;  where  could  be  seen  the  curling  smokes  of  many  a 
farm-house  and  village, —  no  grinding  oppression  there,  no 
degrading  hardship, —  which  the  Jonn/  could  people  with 
honesty  and  contentment;  with  frank  children  who  should 
grow  up  honorable  men  —  they  made  their  home.  Stupidity 
and  meanness,  which  each  one  will  find  lor  himself  too 
soon,  made  no  clouds  in  the  pictures;  yet  they  tainted  the 
air  as   well   there   as  in  the  city. 

"A  fresh  iNIay  morning  called  them  from  within;  the  birds 
sung    sweetly  —  the   blue-birds  and   the   robins.      The  mists 


COTTAGELIFE.  5 

were  rising,  and  across  the  river  came  the  ripple,  which 
showed  the  coming  breeze,  welcome  to  the  idle  sails  wait- 
ing in  the  still  morning." 

"  And  why,"  said  Grace,  "why  should  we  not  live  in  this 
house,  Uncle  Tom?  I  Hke  it  very  much,  it  is  so  snug." 
She  said  this  to  her  father,  for  it  was  thus  that  he  was  usually 
called. 

"  Snug !  the  devil ! "  said  Uncle  Tom,  "  I  can't  breathe  in 
it — I  '11  build  a  large  house — I  'm  getting  fat,  Grace.  Ele- 
phants are   not  at  ease  in    acorns." 

"But  why,"  said  Grace,  "can  we  not  build  you  awing? 
It  does  not  seem  to  me  good  to  leave  so  pleasant  a  place, 
to  do  what  may  not  benefit  us,  and  what  may  give  our 
neighbors  reason  to  find  fault.  But,  father,  say  at  least 
that  you   will  let  this    one  remain   here." 

"I  don't  know — yes  —  no.     What  do  you  want  it  for?" 

"  Now  Uncle  John,  and  you,  Ned,  won't  you  be  on  my 
side?"    said    Grace. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  said  Uncle  John. 

"Say  something;  do  n't  leave  all  to  me,  a  poor  lone 
woman  (as  we  are  called);  at  least,  Uncle  John,  you  might 
give  us  a  small  discourse,  shovidng  how  much  better  my 
plans  are  than  Uncle   Tom's. 

"Well,  listen.  Let  a  man,  if  he  can,  build  what  he  may 
think  best,  and  not  what  he  may  suppose  the  world  will 
be  most  taken  with.  Every  good  house,  and  every  agree- 
able house,  are  improvements  to  a  country  —  increase  its 
sources  of  enjoyment.  Every  house  should,  therefore,  com- 
bine these,  the  useful  and  the  ornamental,  that  it  may  sat- 
isfy the  wants  of  both  body  and  mind — those,  too,  of  a 
highly  cultivated  and  sensible  person,  and  not  those  of  a 
brute.  It  is  a  question,  to  what  extent  a  man  may  justly 
go,  in  an  expenditure  of  time  and   money,  to   satisfy  these 


(J  C  O  T  'I'  A  G  E  S     A  N  D 

\vant,«: — each  must  determine  for  himself.  Certainly,  in  so 
chanjL^inj^  and  uncertain  a  country  as  this,  it  is  wiser  to 
keep  below,  rather  than  to  go  above,  the  just  mean.  No 
man  is  safe  in  l)uildinp:  a  house  equal  with  his  present 
means;  the  expenses  of  the  one  are  likely  to  increase  — 
the  income  from  the  other  to  diminish,  and  a  large  house 
is  not  so  respectable  with  a  small  revenue,  as  the  contrary, 
how  much  soever  one  may  prefer  it.  It  is  safe  to  count 
the  cost  of  your  house  at  fifty  per  cent,  more  than  your 
estimates;  and  it  is  not  safe  to  undertake  to  build  \vith- 
out  the  assistance  of  an  architect;  at  least,  of  a  man  of 
taste,  who  has  studied  the  subject.  Although  many  of  the 
forms  and  details  in  building  are  arbitrary  —  not  based  upon 
any  known  laws,  as  some  vainly  believe,  there  are  some 
things  which  do,  and  some  which  do  not,  agree  —  which  time 
and  good  taste  have  settled,  and  which  the  unpracticed 
hand  will  not  at  once  properly  combine." 

"  And  now.  Uncle  John,  for  the  application,"  said  Grace. 

"  Your  father  wishes,  and  can  well  afford  to  have,  a 
better  and  more  beautiful  house  than  this ;  and,  as  I  think, 
without  injury  to  the  rights  of  his  friends  and  neighbors; 
but  it  will  not,  1  hope,  be  necessary  to  destroy  this,  which 
I  agree  with  you  is  a  pleasant  and  pretty  house." 

"There,  Uncle  Tom,"  said  Grace,  "Uncle  John  is  on  my 
side." 

"  And  on  mine  too,"  said  Uncle  Tom.  "  But,  John,  here 
are  some  of  our  neighbors;  I  am  glad  to  see  them  this  line 
morning." 

"So  am  1,"  said  Grace.  "Now,  Mr.  Scranton,  Mr,  EUery, 
what  do  you  do  you  think  about  this  house  of  ours?  I 
want  to  keep  it,  and  father  wishes  to  build  a  new  one.  I 
know   he  will   build   one,  but   1   wish  to  have   him  do   very 


C  O  T  T  A  G  E     I.  1  F  E  .  7 

wrong  if  he  does,  and   very  wrong   indeed   if  he  pulls   this 
down." 

"  It  is  a  much  better  house  than  was  common  among 
the  Greeks,"  said  Mr.  Ellery. 

"  What  in  the  world,  Ellery,  have  the  Greeks  to  do  with 
Mr.  Ellison's  house?"  asked  Mr.  Scranton.  "What  he 
wants  —  what  you  want,  sir  —  is  a  good  square  house,  with 
a  hall  in  the  middle,  and  two  rooms  on  each  side.  That's 
the  kind  of  house — ^ every  body  ought  to  build  that  sort  of 
house." 

"  The  Greeks,"  said  Mr.  Ellery,  "  gave  less  attention  to 
the  habitations  for  man  than  their  importance  deserves. 
The  majestic  shaft,  the  sculptured  frieze  and  pediment, 
told  their  history  —  a  public,  not  a  private  one.  Their  tem- 
ples were  wonderful  with  beauty,  not  with  brotherhood; 
there  lives  were  glittering,  but  not  lovely.  The  temples 
which  grew  out  of  Christianity,  and  the  mystic  spirit  of 
the  German  soul,  told  another  story  —  of  immortality  and 
hope.  We  are  not  yet  at  the  end.  All  the  beauty  of  the 
Greeks,  all  the  sublimity  of  the  middle  ages,  the  works  of 
the  past,  are  ours,  for  new  combinations,  new  meanings, 
new  purposes,  which  the  shadowy  future  shall  bring  forth." 

"  Bless  me,  Ellery,  how  you  do  run  on,"  said  Mr.  Scran- 
ton. "  I  am  afraid  of  you  when  you  get  on  your  Pegasus ; 
(that  's  what  you  call  him,  is  n't  it?)  you  go  quite  beyond 
my  old  pacer." 

"It  seems  to  me,  there  is  too  much  nonsense  about 
these  matters  now-a-days,"  said  Uncle  Tom.  "I  have  even 
seen  a  Gothic  hen-coop  —  that  's  one  of  the  new  adapta- 
tions—eh, Mr.  Ellery?" 

"  The  Greeks,"  began  Mr.  Ellery ;  while  Uncle  Tom  con- 
tinued, as  he  took  out  of  an  envelope  a  plan :  "  That  's 
the  house  which   T   intend  to   build."     (See  Plate  I.) 


g  C  ( )  T  T  A  (;  K  S     A  N  IJ 

All  itjulhered  round  to  look  at  it,  when  Mr.  Scranton, 
Mowinfif  a  ^^Inall  whistle  of  surprise,  said:  "Bless  me  — 
lor  these   parts,   that  will  he   rather  too  cost-ive." 

"Really,"  said  tirace,  though  her  opinion  was  not  asked; 
'-Really,  I  like  that,  Uncle  Tom;  only  don't  pull  this  one 
down." 

"The  Greeks,  sir,  knew  nothing  of  this,  in  their  domestic 
architecture.     If  not  faulty,  it  certainly  is  elegant." 

"  It  must  cost,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  toward  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars,  if  well  and  thoroughly  carried  out." 

"  Better  think  over  my  plan,"  said  Mr.  Scranton.  "  A 
hall  through  the  middle  with  two  rooms  — " 

"  We   open  a  quarry  to-morrow,"  said  Uncle  Tom. 


COTTAGE     LIFE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

And  now  appears  another  person,  as  necessary  to  this 
story,  as  he  was  to  the  neighborhood  in  which  they  lived  : 
Jim  Haskill  —  a  half  breed  —  half  hunter — half  fisherman  — 
half  worker  at  all  things. 

A  few  words  of  explanation  may  be  desirable  to  the  reader. 
Mr.  John  Ellison,  (Uncle  John,)  and  Ned  Lee,  his  nephew, 
had  spent  several  weeks  in  the  neighborhood,  at  various 
times  before  Uncle  Tom  and  his  daughter,  Grace,  had,  with 
them,  made  a  decided  settlement  there.  This  Jim  Haskill 
had  been  of  great  service  in  all  the  hunting  and  fishing : 
knew  where  horses  could  be  had ;  knew  all  the  by-roads, 
and  short  cuts  over  the  mountains,  and  through  the  for- 
ests;— knew,  in  fine,  what  young  men  and  idle  men,  and 
men  who  seek  health,  were  willing  to  pay  him  for.  In 
these  loose  occupations,  he  spent  his  days  and  nights;  — 
occasionally  giving  some  of  his  spare  time  to  his  daughter, 
Bessy,  who  lived  with  him  half  way  up  the  low  mountains. 

While  the  discussion  was  going  on  about  the  house,  Jim, 
as  he  was  called,  rode  toward  them  a  fine  shaped  sorel 
horse,  without  saddle  or  bridle,  except  a  piece  of  twisted 
bark.  He  had  his  gun  slung  on  his  shoulder ;  while  his 
long  hair  covered  his  broad,  bony  shoulders. 

Ned  said  to  Uncle  Tom,  "Jim  has  stolen  a  nice  looking 
nag   this   morning." 

"  More  likely,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  he  has  been  sent  here 

to  sell  it." 
2 


10  COTTAGES     AND 

"Hallo,  .lim."  cried  rncic  Torn,  "what  is  your  horse 
worth  '^" 

But  Jim  rode  on  towards  the  old  barn-yard,  which  was 
a  little  removed  from  the  house. 

"  Curse  the  fellow,"  he  continued,  "  one  would  suppose 
he  was  a  king." 

"  A  man  who  has  brought  his  wants  to  so  small  a  com- 
pass as  he  has,  is  in  some  sort  a  monarch,"  said  Uncle 
John.  "But  suppose  you  go  and  see  about  the  horse,  Ned; 
we  all  seem   to  like  his  looks." 

So  Ned  went  to  the  yard,  where  he  found  Haskill,  busy 
in  rubbing  and  polishing  his  horse,  as  though  he  was  quite 
at  home,  and  at   leisure. 

"What  do  you  ask  for  your  horse?"   said  Ned. 

"  I   do  n't  ask   anything." 

"Yes  —  but  you  expect  to  sell  him?" 

"  I  never  said  so." 

"What  have  you  brought  him  here  for?" 

"I  thought  perhaps  that  you'd  like  to  see  him  —  he's  a 
jolly  nag!" 

"  Ride  him  down  the  yard,  Jim." 

"  You  may  ride   him,  if  you  dare." 

Ned  smiled  slightly,  as  boys  do. 

"Suppose  I  let  Miss   Grace  ride  him?"    he  replied. 

Stepping  close  up  to  him,  Jim  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  she 
can   do  it!" 

"Will  fifty  dollars  buy  him?" 

Jim  started,  as  if  to  walk  away,  but  said,  "  he  's  a  good 
horse — fifty  dollars  wont  touch  a  good  horse!" 

"  But  it  will  touch  a  good  man,"  said  Ned ;  "  put  on  a 
bridle;   will  he   leap?" 

"Try  him!"  and  Jim  Haskill's  eyes  said  yes. 

The  party  in  the  piazza  saw  Ned  fiying  across  the  broad 


COTTAGE     LIFE  H 

mowing  lot,  which  spread  away  to  the   north  of  the  house. 

"  Surely,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  the  scatterbrain  will  not 
try  the  fence." 

"Bless  my  soul,"  «aid  Mr.  Scranton,  "it's  ridiculous." 

"  By  the  lord,  he 's  over,"  said  Uncle  Tom,  as  the  horse 
rose  handsomely   at  a  five  rail  fence. 

"  The  later  Greeks,"  said  Mr.  Ellery,  "  knew  nothing  of 
such  things.  In  the  cultivation  of  the  more  assthetic  arts, 
they  passed  their  time ;  and  Pythagorus  in  his  shades,  or 
Diogenes  in  his  tub — " 

"  Diogenes  never  saw  anything  finer,"  said  Uncle  Tom, 
as  Ned  again  crossed  the  fence,  and  soon  rode  up  at  a 
long    gallop, — horse    and   rider  refreshed  with  the  exercise. 

"  Ned,"  said  Grace,  "  you  must  not  do  such  things  with 
a  strange  horse;   remember  I  have  nerves." 

"  I  felt  that  he  was  true,"  said  Ned,  evidently  vain  of 
his  horsemanship. 

"Is  he  sound?"  asked  Uncle  Tom,  "  good  eyes,  good  feet, 
no  splints,  no  long  toes?" 

They  all  stepped  out  to  look  at  him  —  Grace  with  the 
rest,  interested  and  fearless  now. 

"How  much  is  he  worth?"  asked  Uncle  John. 

"  Seventy  dollars,"  Ned  replied. 

"Buy  him!"   said   Uncle  Tom. 

A  slight  chuckle  might  have  been  heard  from  the  corner 
of  the  house,  which  betrayed  Jim  Haskill's  presence;  and 
Mr.  Ellery,  who  talked  by  himself  in  the  piazza,  said,  "  our 
country  pleasures  are  those  of  sense,  more  than  of  sensi- 
bility— material  things  overbear  the  spiritual  —  eating  and 
sleeping  soon  become  our  only  divisions  of  the  hours." 

"  Do  n't  you  suppose,"  asked  Grace,  who  overheard  some 
part — "that  there  is  a  God  for  horses   as  well   as   lovers? 


12 


COTTAGES     AND 


Now,  to  show  you  that  I  have  yet  some  sensibility,  I  beg 
that  you  will  sit  down  in  this  fine  spring  morning,  and 
tell  me  about  the  old  man  and  his  daughter,  who  used  to 
live  here." 

"You'll  give  me  a  kiss  for  my  pains?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  but  must  it  be  of  sense,  or  sensibihty, 
—eh?" 

"Both!" 


COTTAGK     LIFE.  13 


DESCRIPTION    OF    PLATE     II. 

SCALE — SIXTEEN     FEET    TO    ONE    INCH. 

This  is  a  small  house,  suited  to  almost  any  situation. 
The  points  of  the  gables  are  cut  off,  after  an  old  cus- 
tom, which  brings  everything  as  snug  and  as  little 
exposed  as  possible. 

In  the  comer  of  the  living  room  will  be  seen  a  place 
for  bee-hives,  separated  from  the  room  by  a  glass  parti- 
tion, which  gives  a  view  of  their  operations  fi-om  within. 
Shutters  should  be  provided  for  the  outside  to  protect 
them  from  cold,  heat,  and  storms.  To  a  person  fond  of 
their  management,  this  may  be  a  source  of  satisfaction. 
In  the  winter  they  might  be  fed  from  within,  and 
indeed  be  allowed  to  enter  the  room. 

Stairs  to  the  cellar  under  the  other  stairway,  or  from 
the  kitchen. 

Two  chambers  can  be  made  in  the  roof. 

Estimated  cost,  $1400. 


H  C  "  T  r  \  r;  r-;  >     \  \  i' 


CHAPTEll    IV. 

Mr.  Ellery  began  the  story  of 

THE    OLD    MAN    AND    IITS    DAUGHTER. 

Upon  the  wall  there  yet  hangs 

A  picture  *   of  beautiful   Youth  and  Iteautiful  Age: 

The  one  fresh  and  fair, 

The  other  venerable  and  lovely. 

Thus  should  it  always  be. 
She  blesses  —  she  sheds  o'er  him,  her  father, 
The  bright  and  golden  sunlight  of  youth ; 
She  refreshes  his  age. 

He  loves  her  —  he  teaches  her  to  live. 
With  the  gently  falling  snows  of  age 
He  cools  the  impatience  of  youth. 
He  tunes  the  discords  of  her  heart. 

Why  sliould  age  resist  tlic  frankness  of  youth, 
'Till  doubt  becomes   baneful  —  shedding  poisons  V 
Remember  that  children  are  in  your  hand, 
Suffer  them  to  come  to   you.   for   of  such  is   the    Kingdom  of 
Heaven. 

Glory,  power,  these  are  worthless,  useless. 
When  they  sacrifice  one  hope,  one  want  of  age. 

•  By  Lilly  Martin. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  15 

Rather  should  youth,  like  the  good  genius  of  Araby, 
Sustain   the    tottering   step  —  carry,    with   it's   angel  wing,  the 
passing  breath. 

Grace  interrupted  Mr.  Ellery  to^  ask,  if  this  was  poetry  ? 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "it  is  not  easy  now-a-days  to  say  what 
is,  and  what  is  not,  poetry;  but  certainly  the  breaking  up 
and  inverting  of  prose  does  not  make  it  poetry." 

But  now  the  old  man  awakens: 
He  feels  the  warm  kiss  upon  his  broad  forehead; 
Umnark'd   by  wrinkles:  teU  tales 
Of  care,  of  fruitless  sorrows,  of  wasted  hopes. 

"I  have  dream' d,"  he  said,  "dream'd, 
Margery,  of  your  mother,  and  her  children, 
In  Heaven.     How  you  led  me  by  the  hand 
Into  a  world  where  I  breathed  music. 
And  inspiration;  so  when  my  eyes  were  open'd, 
They  were  filled  with  visions  of  holiness  and  joy; 
I  saw  the  dear  ones,  their  faces  radiant  with  smiles; 
And  they  knew  me,  embraced  me. 
And  led  me  on  by  ways  which  were  all  glorious; 
Yet  how,  I  cannot  tell;  my  eyes  overran 
With  happiness.     Yet  you  were  not  forgotten, 
Margery.     They  knew  you,  had  watch'd  over  you; 
They  gently  drew  you  from  my  side. 
For  there,  as  on  earth,  you  did  not  leave  me. 
And  it  is  for  you  alone  that  I  would  Uve, — 
It  makes  me  lonely  when  I  think 
That  I  must  leave  you  in  this  unpitying  world." 

As  her  hand  pass'd  over  his  whiten' d  hair, 

She  said,  "while  the  angels  protect  me, 

Nothing  can  harm;  and  when  you  die, 

I  shall  live  on,  with  trust  in  the  good  Prf)vidence." 


h; 


COTTAGES     AND 

"But  see,  Margery,  where  William  Allen 
Comes  Ut  us;  wlicn  1  go,  why  should  you  not  love  him V" 
A  slight  Mush  was  startled   into  being, 
Over  till-  fair  face  of  the  girl, 
As  she  shrank  away  —  to  hide  that 
Which  no  eye  must  see,  no  tongue  speak, 
No  heart  imagine ;  hardly  her  own,  « 

In  its  holiest  chambers. 

They  sat  there,  on  either  side  of  the  old  man  : 

Through  the  broad  window  they  watch'd 

The  golden  clouds ;  the  long  shadows ; 

Heard  the  faint  cliirji  of  the  l)irds;    for  nature  was 

Sinking  to  its  rest. 

William  ^Ulen  spoke  to  them  of  his  liopes, 
Of  his  purj)oses : — That  among  the  defenders 
Of  their  homes,  he  had  rank'd  himself — 
The  morning's  sun  must  see  him  on  his  way. 

Full  of  hope,  of  confidence,  of  truth, 

His  words  flash'd  like  chrystals  in  the  rock ; 

All  was  beautiful,  with  rainbow   dyes : 

'T  was  the  glittering  foam   upon  the  cup  ot  life. 

"'Tis  a  sad  business  at  best,"  said  the  old  man. 

"In  our  most  sacred  war  I  have  fought, 

And  once,  breast  to  breast  with  my  neighbor. 

With  my  friend.     As  honest,  as  true  as  any. 

From   education  —  instinct  —  what  you    will  — 

He  preserved,  defended  the  majesty  o\'  the  law; 

What    to  us,  was  revolution. 

To  him,  was  rebellion  —  offensive  to  God. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  17 

"As  I  march'd  across  the  battfe  field, 

I  fell  —  across  his  body,  from  which 

Flow'd  the  purple  streams  of  life  — 

His  eyes  were  turn'd  to  earth: 

His  thoughts  —  far  from  the  strife 

Where  anger,  glory  reign.      A  flash 

Of  life  pass'd  over  his  death- stricken  face : 

Mournfully  he  spoke  — "  Is  this,  then,  our  last  embrace  ? 

To  this,  do  we  come?     Oh,  Richard  —  oh,  my  God! 

Protect  my  wife,  my  child  I "     I  spoke  some  words ; 

'T  was  too  late.    He  laid  his  head  upon  the  earth, 

And  his  soul  pass'd  sorrowfully  away. 

"It  must  be  a  great  truth  —  a  mighty  good, 
Which  will  atone  for  the  injustice  —  the  wickedness  — 
The  woe  of  war.     And  now,  my  children, 
Leave  me  —  I  will  dream  again  of  heaven. 

He  laid  him  down,  as  they  walk'd  forth 
Into  the  starry  night : —  the  moon,  just  shedding 
Her  soften'd  light  across  the  broad  fields. 
They  pass'd  through  the  pleached  walks, 
Under  the  shadowy  trees  —  in  which  the  birds 
Built  their  nests.     The  sound  of  the  sheep  bell 
Might  be  heard;  whUe  the  gentle  wind 
Whisper'd  to  the  fresh  young  leaves. 

The  incense  of  earth  was  rising  to  Heaven; 
On  every  side  the  fragrance  of  the  honeysuckles, 
The  violets,  and  the  daffodils,  was  breathed 
Upon  them.      They  pass'd  on  in  silence. 

But  their  thoughts  ?  perhaps  they  were  of  love. 
He  spoke  of  it  —  in  words  which  are  sacred; 
Of  his  hopes,  of  his  fears  —  that  she  had  been 
The  light  of  his  life;  oh,  that  she  would  be 
3 


18  CDTT  A  r.  KS     A  N  D 

The  star  to  whidi  he  lui^ht  always  turn. 
She  gave  lierself  to  tlie  sweet  influences; 
Coneealniont  had  no  home  in  her  heart ; 
She  laiil   Iht  head  on  his  shouhler. 
And   her   Ineath   niinirleil   wifh   his. 

"  I  cannot  U'avc  my  fatlicr,"   slic  said, 

"  He  has  shelter'd  me ;    ami  now  he  is  old. 

I  will  comfort  liim.      I   will  stay  with  him, 

fiive  to  him   what    I   can  of  my  own  life. 

I  will  hippo  for  you  —  yes,"  she  said, 

As  she  look'd  into  liis  eyes,  "will  love  you,  it  maybe, 

"While  I  live."      They  parted  that  ni^dit 

Not  to  nuM't   ngain   for  years. 

But  the  old  man  sleeps  on  —  perhaps    dreams. 
Why  does  he  not  awaken?     Still'd  are  the  pulses 
Of  life  —  still'd   the   thoughts   of  his   soul. 
He  dreams    no  more. 

Margery  took  his  hand,  and  for  an  instant 

Knew  the  sinking  of  tlie  heart. 

But  death  —  it  was  then  beautiful. 

Upon  his  face  rested  the  last  light  of  the  sunset  of  peace. 

She  sat  by  his  side  through  the  soft  footed  hours. 
And  slept  calmly  tlicre  —  together  these  two: 
The  lifeless  form  of  love; 
The  lovely  form  of  life. 

But  time  marches  on  with  ceaseless  steps; 
Through  the  warm  valleys,  up  toward  the  rose  colorM  peaks - 
Over  the  barren  plains  —  the  rough  and  tliorny  ways  — 
Through  dark  caverns  —  Time  goes  toward  eternity. 

So  time  marches  with  William  Allen. 
Flnsh'd   with   vonth  —  w.nstincr  himself 


C  O  T  T  A  G  E     L  1  F  E  .  j «) 

With  foolishness  —  falseness  —  impatiently 

He  hurries  on  with  the  reaper.  # 

Does  he  forget  Margery?  the  clear   hearted. 
She  forgets  ntit  him.      She   knows  his  life : 
And  disappointment   checks  the  current  of  her's, 
Almost  to  the  overflowing  of  it's  shores. 
But  she  has  faitli  in  herself;    believes  in    the  end. 
She,  too,  marches  on  with  time : 
Through  warm  valleys  —  dark   caverns; 
But  ever  with  a  clear  and  steady  light. 

And  not  for  herself  alone.     Oh,  no! 
Children  and  men  —  the  young  and  the  old  — 
See  by  her  light  —  have  no  fears. 
What  magic  is  this?     With  what  rod  does  she 
Touch  their  soids? 

'T  is  love.     Faith,  pure  and  simple. 

Before  it,  self  vanishes  —  as  the  sluggish  mist 

At  the  coming  of  the  glorious  sun. 

It  touches,  and  soul  answers  to  soul. 

With  electric  spark,  the  weak  are  made  strong  — 
The  poor,  rich  —  the  rich,  good.     The  cold  diamonds 
Of  the  world  are  consumed : 
'T  is  omnipotent  to  bless. 

But  there  comes  one,  foot  sore  and   weary: 
William  Allen,  whom  we  knew ;  whom  Margery  loved. 
Young,  yet  marked  with  age,  he  has  been 
On  rugged  ways,  has  stumbled,  has  fallen. 

What,  now,  shall  become  of  Margery? 

Shall  she  forsake  all?     Cut  with  the  fatal  shears. 

As  it  were,  the  threads  of  life 

Which  she  weaves  in  her  hand? 


•20  C  O  T  T  A  G  E  .S     A  N  D 

William  Allen  now  must  gd  backward  — 
•.       Receiver  hh  youth: — No  harvest,  m   this  world, 
Can  1)0  gathered  in  —  only  strength   for  another. 
She  can  litlji  liini ;  hut  slie  must  go  forward. 

Still   slie  love.s  hiniV     Surely,  all  tliat  remains 
Of  William  Allen   she  li>vf.s.      Ilow  much 
She  might  have  loved  him,  who  can  tell! 
Whoever  says  that  love  is  blind,  does  greatly  err: 
And  oidy  young,  does  surely  err. 
True  boy  and  man;  childlike,  yet  wise  is  he. 
With  eagle  eye  and  dove-like  wing, 
He  passes  over  the  souls  of  men. 

So  ends  the  story  of  Margery  and  William  Allen. 

"  Why,"  said  Grace,  as  Mr.  Ellery  concluded,  "  it  goes  on 
as  if  it  were  out  of  a  book.     But  where  is  Margery?" 

"  She  lives  near  this,"  replied  Mr.  Ellery,  "  and  will  be 
glad  to  see  you." 

"  I  will  surely  visit  her,"  said  Grace. 

Uncle  Tom  rousing  up  said,  under  an  impression  that  it 
was  polite  in  him  to  take  some  notice  of  the  story  — 

"  I  do  n't  see  that  the  running  away  of  the  horses  helped 
the  story  along." 

"No,"  said  Grace,  laughing;  "we  reached  the  end  with- 
out them." 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  21 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  Yer  dinner  is  ready,  Miss  Grace  Ellison/'  said  the  new 
girl,  through  an  opening  in  the  door. 

As  the  Ellisons  proposed  to  live  in  the  country,  they  had 
thought  it  best,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  get  help  there ;  and 
in  the  village  near  by,  had  found  this  girl,  and  a  sort  of 
cousin,  who  said  he  understood  horses,  farming,  and  in  fact 
could  do  any  thing.  They  also  had  but  recently  arrived 
there,  from  what  was  decidedly  rural,  where  woods  and 
wilderness  were  sweetly  blended. 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  said  Mr.  Scranton,  as  he  pulled  out  his 
large  watch  —  "  half  past  eleven  !  " 

He  looked  inquiringl}^  at  Grace. 

"How  is  this?"  said  Uncle  Tom. 

"  Perceptible  unsophistication,"  said  Ned,  "  on  the  part  of 
some  members  of  this  household  —  quite  a  child  of  nature, 
Grace  seems  to  have  met  with  —  one  of  those  sweet  ming- 
lings  of  milk  pails  and  rose  bugs,  of  which  we  read,  eh  ?  " 

"Ned  will  remain  quiet,"  said  Grace,  "and  the  rest  of 
you  will  continue  your  conversation,   'till  I  make  a  report." 

She  found  a  dinner,  but  it  was  a  strange  one,  and  strangely 
put  on :  the  poor  chickens  lay  untrussed,  with  wings  extend- 
ed, and  legs  aloft  in  helpless  amazement.  Two  little  dishes 
of  boiled  parsley  flanked  these — which  Jemima  afterward 
said  she  was  ashamed  of,  't  was  "so  scimpy."  The  fish's 
tail,  severed  from  his  well  stuffed  body,  lay  in  his  mouth, 
like  a  sweet  bait,  instead  of  bending   to    it,  as   Grace    had 


2*^  COT '1'  A  ( ;  i;  s    a  N'  i > 

ordered.  Each  knife  s^tood  erect,  as  a  horse  guard,  in  its 
piece  of  bread.  There  was  an  evident  attempt  at  grandeur; 
but  it  only  reached  the  rmiarivabie.  To  laugh,  or  to  scold, 
was  the  question.  In  all  dillicult  cases,  one  must  ''com- 
promise." (Jrace  did  so.  by  calling  for  Jemima,  who  had 
deserted  the  kitchen. 

Siio  an.swered,  saying,  '•  1  was  baptized  Jeniiniy  Jane." 

"  Well  then,  Jemimy  Jane,  what  could  have  induced  you 
to  get  dinner  at  this  time  of  day?" 

"  Why  —  law  ! "  she  replied,  evidently  surprised  and  re- 
lieved of  some  anxiety  respecting  her  cookery,  "  the  sun  's 
past  the  door  crack,  and  we  always  had  dinner  then  to  our 
house  ;  we  did  nt  dra.g    round  slip-shod   all   day."' 

"Well,"  said  Clrace,  who  saw  that  she  was  active  and 
nieant    well,    "come  in,   and   we   will  re-arrange  things." 

"I  can't,  before  all  them  men.  I  must  put  on  my  other 
things  —  slick  up  a  little." 

Grace  assured  her  that  the  men  were  not  there  —  and 
that  her  other  things  would  add  nothing  to  the  festive 
board.  She  proceeded  to  relieve  the  knives  and  forks  from 
duty,  and  to  dispose  them  more  peacefully  —  to  reform  and 
right  matters,  generally.  As  a  young  housekeeper,  she  was 
startled  at  this  unlooked  for  result ,  but  determined  to  carry 
the  war  into  the  enemy's  country  —  to  laugh  first  —  when  Ned, 
putting  his  head  into  the  door,  inquired,  with  mock  gravity  — 

"Is  your  breakfast  nearly  ready.  Miss  Ellison?" 

At  his  appearance,  Jemima  darted  away  as  if  he  were  a 
dragon.      She   plainly  had  strange  ideas  about  young  men. 

"  If  you  will  return  to  bed,"  Grace  replied,  "  we  will  serve 
it  to  you,  there,  in  oriental  magnificence." 

Having  again  recovered  the  .><kittish  girl,  she  explained 
that  her  wish  was  to  have  had  the  tail  of  the  fish  brought 
to  its   head,  so  that  it  would  lie  in  the  dish. 


C  O  T  T  A  G  E     L  IKE.  2.S 

"  Law  !  you  do  n't  say  ?  " 

That  the  parsley  was  not  to  have  been  boiled. 

"  Well,  now  —  who  'd  have  thought  ? '" 

Upon  inquiring  for  the  mustard,  Jemima  said  that  the 
"nasty  stuff"  had  been  washed  away.  But  Grace  having 
announced  to  the  gentlemen,  that  they  must  make  it  a  de- 
jeuner instead  of  a  dinner,  it  passed  along,  and  furnished 
food  for  laughter  as  well  as  conversation.  Uncle  John  took 
advantage  of  the  occasion  to  mention  a  little  supper,  to 
which  he  had  been  invited  with  half  a  dozen  others,  by  the 
painter,  Wall.  Upon  opening  the  folding  doors.  Wall  held 
up  his  hands,  exclaiming  — 

"This  is  dreadful  —  I  ordered  my  ducks  to  be  roasted,  and 
my  lobster  boiled,  and  it  is  just  the  other  wa}'^ ! " 

"  Oh,  that  I  had  known  that,''  said  the  cook,  an  Irish 
woman,  "for  I  had  the  divil's  own  work  to  keep  the  ugly 
thing  before  the  fire." 

Jack,  the  black  Newfoundland,  sat  by  Grape's  side;  din- 
ner, even  at  that  early  hour,  ^vas  no  joke  to  him.  At  every 
pause  in  the  conversation  he  touched  her  arm  with  his  rough 
hand,  and  looked  away,  as  innocent  as  if  it  had  been  some 
other  dog.  Jack  always  dined  well;  to  his  mind  it  was  of 
consequence.  Not  so,  however,  to  Mr.  Ellery,  who  helped 
himself  freely  to  the  parsley,  that  being  most  convenient 
to  him. 

Uncle  Tom  rose  from  the  table  and  brought  up  from  the 
cellar  some  sparkling  wine.  With  great  confidence,  he  said, 
as  he  proceeded   to  open  a  bottle  — 

"  I  have  n't  room  here  for  much,  but  that  is  as  good 
wine   as  ever  passed  your  lips." 

The  cork  popped  out  unexpectedly,  striking  him  on  the 
chin  —  a  just  retribution  for  such  a  speech. 

"Within   two  years."  said    Uncle  John,   "better  sparkling 


24  C  O  T  T  A  G  K  S     AND 

wine  will  be  made    in    this    country,  than  the    vineyards  of 
Champagne  can  produce.'' 

"Pooh,  John,"  said  Uncle  Tom  in  reply  —  "In  the  cider 
cellars  of  New  Jersey  ?     Very  fine,  no  doubt." 

"No  —  on  the  l)anks  of  the  Ohio  1  have  tasted  the    issue 
of  some  experiments,  and  1  know  what  will  be  the  result." 
"  Well,  now,"  said  Mr.  Scranton,  as  he  set  down  his  glass, 
'*  this   is  surprising." 

Whether  he  meant  Uncle  John's  statement,  or  Uncle  Tom's 
wine,  is  not  known,  for  Mr.  Ellery  proceeded  to  say  — 

"  Among  the  Greeks,  two  varieties  of  entertainments  pre- 
vailed. One,  in  which  each  man  enjoyed  himself  at  his 
own  expense,  in  company  with  his  friends ;  the  other, 
where  the  whole  expense  was  defrayed  by  one  —  and  the 
latter  was  found  so  expensive  that  the  law,  limiting  the 
number  of  guests  to  thirty,  was  found  to  be  absolutely 
necessary." 

"  It  is  curious,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  how  many  of  their 
customs   have  come  do\vn   to  us." 

"  This,  however,"  continued  Mr.  Ellery,  "  was  when  Greece 
had  advanced  from  barbarism  into  the  full  sun-light  of  art; 
when  luxury  was  at  its  hight ; — then,  at  their  feasts,  couches 
were  introduced,  and  the  guests  drank  spiced  wine  as  they 
lay." 

Mr.  Ellery  raised  his  glass. 

"  We,  alas,"  said  Ned,  "  have  changed  that,  and  in  too 
many  cases  lie  as  we  drink." 

"  'T  was  then,  too,"  Mr.  Ellery  went  on,  "  tiiat  the  Rose, 
sacred  to  Cupid,  the  god  of  Secrecy,  was  placed  upon  the 
tables,  intimating  that  what  passed  there  was  not  to  be  ex- 
posed to  the  world ;  that  privacy  might  promote  that  ease 
which  is  only  the  child   of  security." 

"  In    other  words,"  said   Ned.  "  that,  as  we  say,  the  sane- 


C  O  T  T  A  G  E      L  I  F  E.  '25 

tity  of  private  life  might  be  preserved.  And  this,  too,  we 
have  happily  changed  —  the  result  of  which  is  circumspec- 
tion—  the  parent  of  many  virtues,  especially  that  of  dignity  ! 

"  Then,  too,  were  introduced  those  refinements  of  the  cui- 
sine, which  made  the  feasts  of  Alcibiades  the  most  remark- 
able that  have  ever  been  described ;  when  melons,  from 
Persia,  melted  on  their  golden  dishes ;  when  the  fins  of  a 
fiish,  now  believed  by  some  commentators  (though  it  is  yet 
an  unsettled  question)  to  have  been  the  turbot,  swam  in  an 
oil  extracted  from  the  tail  pieces  of  peacocks ;  when  the 
hump  of  the  camel  took  its  place  at  the  head  of  the  board, 
as  was  not  long  since  the  case  in  some  parts  of  Europe, 
with  the  head  of  the  boar;  when  the  tongues  of  squirrels 
(a  variety  now  believed  to  be  extinct),  highly  seasoned  witJi 
spices  from  Arabia,  gave  vivacity  to  entertainments,  com- 
pared with   which  those  of  our   day — " 

Mr.  EUery  raised  his  glass,  his  throat  being  husky,  when 
Ned  said  — 

"  You  forget  one  dish  introduced  by  him,  much  resem- 
bling our  terrapins, —  the  fingers  and  ears  of  the  little  cap- 
tives, taken  in  their  wars  with  the  Egyptians  and  Africans, 
which,  prepared  after  a  method  of  his  own,  were  greatly 
relished,  and  excited  as  much  surprise,  when  the  ingredients 
were  known,  as  that  dish  in  front  of  Mr.  EUery  would  to 
Ude. 

Mr.  EUery  put  down  his  glass,  and  looked  anxiously  at 
the  parsley.  Grace  reassured  him  by  saying,  that  it  was 
only  a  new  way  which  she  and  Jemima  had  introduced  of 
cooking  the  vegetable. 

"  Well  this  is  very  fine,"  said  Mr.  Scranton. 

But  w^hether  he  referred  to  the  dish,  or  wine,  was  again 

a  question. 
4 


26  COTTAGES     AND 

"  C.race,"  said  Tncle  Tom,  linding  an  opening:.  "  lill  Mr. 
l^lliTv'.s  glass;  he  sits  iirxl  lo  you. 

As   she   filled  hi.s  gla^ss,  he  said,  looking  into  her  face  — 

"  Tl»e    ir.atcliless    GanyiiK-de,    divinely   lair, 
Whom    heaven,   cnanntred,   snatch'd  to  ujjper   air, 
To  hoar   the  cup  of  Jove." 

"  Well  done,  Ellery,"  said  jMr.  Scranton,  bursting  into  a 
laugh,  in  whieh  the  rest  joined,  "it  is  well  you  are  mar- 
ried—  really  it  is  surprising." 

"  Why  well,  that  he  's  married,  Mr.  Scranton?  You  for- 
get that  I  am  in  the  market,"  said  Grace  ;  "  but  as  1  am 
not  ready  to  be  snatched  to  upper  air,  1  will  leave  you  — 
hoping  you  will  not,  in  your  libations,  altogether  imitate 
the  Greeks." 

As  she  went  out  to  give  .Temima  some  help,  Mr.  l^llery 
commenced  — 

"The  religious  festivals  of  the  Greeks,  were,  however,  the 
most  remarkable,  as  well  as  numerous.  In  the  feasts  of 
the  Gods,  described  by  Homer,  we  see  Juno  setting  next 
to  him,  then  Minerva,  Apollo,  Venus,  Ceres,  and  the  deities 
who  presided  over  the  attributes." 

"  We  have  changed  all  that,"  said  Uncle  John  ;  "  we  do  n't 
admit  women." 

"  But  it  was  to  Bacchus,"  Mr.  Ellery  proceeded,  "  that 
highest  honors  were  paid.  Among  the  games  which  fol- 
lowed the  sacrifices,  was  one  of  filling  the  skin  of  tiie  goat, 
always  sacrificed  to  Bacchus  — " 

"I  wish  the  one  who  eat  up  my  vines  was  sacrificed," 
interrupted  Uncle  Tom. 

"  With  wine  :  it  was  closed  tightly  and  placed  upon  the 
ground,  and  the  one  who,  jumping  upon  it,  could  retain  his 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  27 

position  upon  the    soft   and   shifting   object,  was    the    victor, 
and  won  the  bottle  as  it  was  called." 

"The  jumping  upon  the  bottle,"  said  Uncle  John,  "is  still 
retained  in  most  of  our  feasts, —  but  the  bottle  itself  is  usu- 
ally the  '  victor.'  " 

"  Over  thirty  thousand  Gods,"  continued  Mr.  Ell§ry,  "  were 
entertained  in  Greece." 

"  I  wish  one  was  entertained  in  this  country,"  said  Uncle 
Tom. 

"  Gold  !  "  Ned  suggested. 

"  The  Chinese  wondered,"  said  Mr.  Scranton,  "  that  the 
English  did  not  hire  people  to  do  their  dancing.  I  should 
certainly  have  hired  a  boy  to  do  my  worshipping.  How 
many  a  day  would  it  be  throtigh  the  year  ?  " —  taking  out 
his  pencil. 

"  Festivals  were  only  instituted,"  explained  Mr.  Ellery, 
"  for  the  Most  Mighty.  One  celebration,  at  Delphi,  compre- 
hended the  minor  deities,  which  —  " 

"Was  very  well,  if  they  comprehended  it,"  said  Uncle 
Tom. 

"But  it  is  curious  to  trace"  (Mr.  Ellery  turned  to  Uncle 
Tom)  "  the  gradual  progress  from  fetichism  to  this  polythe- 
ism of  the  Greeks ;  now  concentered  in  all  parts  of  the  civ- 
ilized world  into  a  monotheism,  which  taking  different  forms 
is  molding  all  to  its  great  type  —  its  one  idea." 

"  Yes,"  said  Uncle  Tom,  as  Mr.  Ellery  paused,  taking  up 
his  glass  again. 

He  went  on. 

"  You  can  very  well  see  that  it  was  in  the  order  of  things, 
that  polytheism  should  exist  in  the  earlier  times,  not  only 
in  the  theory  of  the  Greeks,  but  in  fact." 

"  How  ? "    said  Uncle  Tom,   a  little  nettled. 

"  That  there  is  no  incompatibility  in  the  existence  of  these 


28  C()TTAGKt>     AND 

deities    personifying   certain    attributes,  with    a   great   ruling 
cause.     Do  n'tyou  think  so,   sir?" 

"  I  believe  in    one  Cod,"'  answered    I'ncle  Tom. 
"  But  one  may  admit  the  possibility  of  these  manifestations, 
which  were  e.-sential  to   the   Greek  iiiiiul.     There  i.^  no  diili- 
culty  in  tRe  way  of  such  a  belief." 

"  There  is  a  much  simpler  one,"  Uncle  Tom  answered, 
"  and  one  good  God  would  have  been  better  for  them  than 
forty  thousand  Bacchuses." 

"Certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Ellery,  "than  forty  thousand 
Bacchuses.  You  must  admit  that  the  making  certain  qual- 
ities prominent  —  deifying  them  —  tended  to  develope  these 
attributes,  and  gave  ri?e  to  art,  such  as  the  world  has  never 
since  seen  ?" 

"  I  will  not  admit  any  such  thing,"  said  Uncle  Tom ;  "  for 
they  forgot  the  one  God,  in  their  attributes." 

Mr.  Rllcry,  finding  Uncle  Tom  was  not  open  to  reason, 
continued   the   subject  in   another   direction. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  this  tendency  to  centralization,  con- 
centration, is  perceptible,  not  only  in  religion,  but  in  every 
thing  —  from  the  individual  to  the  family — then  to  tiie 
tribe  —  then  the  state  —  the  city  —  the  federation  of  the 
states  —  the  empire — until,  finally,  we  shall  have  but  one 
state;   one   king;   one    people;   one   language;   one   God." 

The  conversation,  as  well  as  the  dinner,  had  an  end,  if 
nothing  more  ;  and  when  Mr.  Scranton  and  Mr.  Ellery  had 
given,  the  one  his  hearty,  the  other  his  mute  adieus,  Uncle 
Tom  insinuated  himself  into  the  soft  heart  of  the  sofa  — 
while,  during  the  warm  hours,  the  others  addressed  them- 
selves to  various  occupations  —  Grace,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,   to   a    history — a  pictorial  history  of  England. 

She  was  old  enough  to  find  as  much  there  as  in  poor 
stories.     She  loved  Hampden  —  admired  Cromwell  —  disliked 


C  O  T  T  A  G  E     L  1  F  E .  21) 

Mary,  with  her  lovers  and  caps,  and  detested  Henry,  his  cru- 
elties, and  his  amours.  Uncle  John,  after  some  time  having 
passed,  was  startled  from  his  drowse,  by  Grace   asking  — 

"  Why  have  you  never  married  ?  Every  Jack  has  his  Jill  ?  " 

•'I  could  n't  do  it." 

"But  seriously,  Uncle  John?" 

"Seriously,  I  had  the  usual  experience,  and  believed  that 
this  or  that  one  vv^as  necessary  to  my  happiness ;  but 
my  caution  always  interfered  in  time,  and  my  conscience 
would  not  permit  me  to  marry   a  poor  girl." 

Grace  laughed  out. 

"  Seriously,  Grace,  the  girls  whom  I  knew  were  brought 
up  to  expect  the  best  position  and  the  like  —  would  have 
been  unhappy  without  them.  I  should  have  been  misera- 
ble, as  the  drudge  who  was  to  toil  for  these  —  as  the  father 
of  children  who  must  go  through  the  same  dissatisfied 
youth  which  fell  to  my  lot.  I  could  not  and  would  not 
do  it — nor  will   I   advise   any  one  else   to  do  it." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  Ned?"  asked  Grace. 
"Are  you  ready  to  join  this  association  of  single  blessed- 
ones?" 

"I  shall  do  what  the  rest  of  you  do,"  he  replied  — 
quite  busy  at  his  work,  perhaps  to  hide  a  little  added 
color. 

"Not,  Grace,"  continued  Uncle  John,  "that  I  have  doubts 
of  marriage.  It  is  essential  to  the  highest  form  of  man- 
hood and  womanhood;  but  I  think  that,  as  to  the  num- 
bers in  each  state,  more  true  manliness  and  womanliness 
exists  out  of,  than  in  it !  These  ill-judged  connections 
are  wicked  and  unfortunate  to  all  concerned ;  and  their 
results  fill  the  world  with  weakness.  A  man  has  no  more 
right  to  bring  to  suffering  and  degradation  a  wife  and 
children  than  he  has  to  lie." 


30 


C  (J  T  T  A  CJ  E  S     A  .\  D 


"What  shall  we  all  do,  Uncle  John?"  asked  Grace. 
"Why   have  you   not  joined  the   shakers?' 

••You  vvomin  arc  much  to  blame  —  you  are  too  willing. 
Somewhere  I  have  heard  of  a  minister  who,  about  to 
marry  two  persons  in  church,  said:  "Those  who  wish  to 
be  married  will  rise,"  when  half  the  women  got  up  in  their 
places.  And  it  is  because  they  have  nothing  else  to  do, 
and  are  Jit  for  nothing  else  —  if  for  that." 

For  some  time  past  they  had  heard  the  voice  of  Jemi- 
ma, in  anything  but  dulcet  strains,  singing  out  the  stirring 
hymn   which,  commencing  with —  » 

"'Where  now  is  good  old  Moses?" 

comes  down   through   saints   and    heroes   even  to    our   time. 
Uncle    Tom     was    growing    restive ;    but    as     the    song 
increased  in  energy,  he   waked  when  it  burst  upon  him  — 

"He  wont  out  tlirough  tribulation, 

Safe  to  the  promised   land. 
By-and-by  we  '11  go  and  meet  him, 
By-and-Ly  we  '11  go  — " 

"Zounds,"  said  Uncle  Tom,  "go  at  once — go  to  the 
devil  —  anywhere  but  here!" 

lie  was  almost  taken  in  the  act,  for  the  girl  soon 
entered,  and  seated  herself,  knitting-work  in  hand,  dressed 
in  her  best  clothes.  'T  was  the  way  they  did  where  she 
came   from. 

"Is  John  coming  too?"   asked  Ned    Lee. 

"  I  rather  guess  not,"  she  replied.  But  this  was  the  first 
ilay  of  Jemima  Jane. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  31 


CHAPTER    VI. 

Grace,  concluding  to  take  some  other  occasion  to  explain 
matters  to  her,  now  proposed  to  the  gentlemen  that  they 
should  take  a  ride;  perhaps  to  visit  Margery,  of  whom  Mr. 
Ellery  had  made  his  story,  and  who  lived  at  a  short  dis- 
tance. She  rode  her  new  horse,  which  she  enjoyed  ex- 
ceedingly. 'T  was  plain  that  she  was  excited;  perhaps  a 
little  proud  of  her  own  power  over  him. 

"  Of  which  do  you  think  the  most,"  asked  Ned,  who  had 
not  been  able  to  engage  her  attention ,  "  your  horse  or 
yourself?" 

"  Why,  Ned,  do  n't  be  severe.  I  am  always  excited  when 
I  ride  a  good  horse.     I  do  n't  know  altogether  why." 

Ned,  who  had  felt  a  little  piqued,  soon  fell  into  her  good 
humor,  and  they  rode  onward,  until  they  were  met  and  stop- 
ped by  Mr.  Derwent.  He  was  a  neighbor,  who  lived  in 
the  village  —  was  a  money  making,  and,  as  some  thought, 
a  managing  lawyer.  He  had  not  been  seen  by  either 
Grace  or  Ned,  here;  though  for  a  long  time,  during  his  city 
visits,  he  had  known  the  two  elder  men,  and  now  showed 
great  apparent  satisfaction  at  the  meeting.  He  spoke  of 
the  value  of  their  residence ;  expressed  fluently  his  pleasure 
at  having  them  for  neighbors ;  trusted  they  would  be  inti- 
mate ;  and,  indeed,  omitted  nothing  which  it  was  polite  to 
say.  Grace  listened  quietly,  thinking  that  possibly  he  over 
did  it.  With  the  swiftness  of  a  woman,  she  began  to  doubt 
him.      He  mentioned  that  he  expected  his  son  home,  his  only 


lio  C  O  T  T  A  (J  E  S     AND 

son,  who  would  be  proud  to  know  them — whom  he  hoped 
she  would  receive  among  her  admirers.  No  fault  could  be 
found  with  all  this ;  but  Ned  now  began  to  question  his  good 
taste.  Among  her  admirers?  Why  should  she  take  him? 
Hum  ! 

They  rode  on,  and  soon  reached  the  lane  which  led  to 
Margery's  small  house.  A  troop  of  six  or  eight  noisy  little 
boys  and  girls  were  just  coming  out  of  her  gate,  and  were 
too  glad  to  open  it  for  these  strangers.  Margery,  herself, 
who  was  in  sight,  busied  with  her  rake  upon  a  little  flower 
bed.  did  not  see  them  until  they  were  almost  upon  her. 
When  she  saw  Uncle  John,  with  whom  she  was  acquain- 
ted, a  fine  smile  broke  over  her  smooth  face,  which  the 
brown  hair  slightly  shaded.  She  wore  no  bonnet,  and  it 
was  clear  that  both  sun  and  wind  were  friends  to  her. 
Quite  a  strong  knife  hung  at  her  waist. 

After  the  usual  greetings,  she  said  to  Grace,  "  I  am  glad 
to  sec  that  you  are  willing  to  give  etiquette  a  stab  —  that 
you  do  not  wait  for  me  to  make  a  first  visit." 

"I  trust,"  said  Ned,  looking  at  her  knife,  "that  you  do 
not  require  so  powerful  a  weapon  to  trim  etiquette  down 
to  civility  and  reason?" 

"Oh  no  —  my  boys  arc  always  wanting  a  bow  made,  or 
a  whip  cut  —  and  my  trees  and  bushes  need  care.  I  have 
a  kind  of  passion,"  she  said,  "  for  training  and  trimming." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  the  boys,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  if  you 
trim  the  trees  first  and   them    afterwards." 

"They  get  only  their  share;"  she  said,  laughingly,  as 
she  led  the  way,  proposing  that,  in  so  fine  an  evening,  they 
should    keep    out    of  doors. 

"1  will  show  you  my  bees;  for  I  have  more  of  a  col- 
lection   than    when    I    was    at   home    at   your   house." 

1   will   not   describi^    the    house    which    she    had    made    for 


C  O  T  T  A  G  E     L  I  F  E.  33 

her  pets.  It  was  one  of  those  combinations  of  mosses 
bark,  and  beauty,  which  can  be  made  only  by  one  who, 
having  a  love   for  such  things,  has  cultivated   it. 

Unexpectedly  to  them  all,  at  this  early  season,  they  found 
the  clustering  and  humming,  which  clearly  indicated  that 
a  swarming  was  contemplated,  and  at  once,  too.  Mar- 
gery called  to  one  of  her  scholars,  who  yet  lingered  near 
them,  to  hasten  with  a  hive.  It  came  too  late.  By  one  of 
those  remarkable  accidents,  the  swarm  fixed  itself  upon 
Grace's  head.  Ned  rushed  forward  with  an  insane  pur- 
pose, which  Uncle  John  arrested;  while  Margery,  in  a  de- 
cided voice,  told  her  to  remain  perfectly  quiet.  She  then 
fearlessly  removed  a  portion  of  the  bees,  which  contained 
their  queen;  they  clung  in  masses  to  her  hands,  flew  about 
her,  settled  and   crawled  over  her,  without  stinging. 

Grace  then  sank  on  the  ground;  yes,  she  fainted; — yes, 
the  heroine  of  our  country  life  fainted  in  this  unromantic 
way;  even  before  Ned  was  ready  to  sustain  her  head  upon 
his  heart.  However,  he  did  turn  pale ;  he  did  lift  her  in 
his  arms;  while  Uncle  John  did — what  was  much  more 
to  the  purpose  —  bring  some  water,  which  revived  her  at 
once. 


;^,1  COTTAUKS     AND 


DESCRTPTTON    OF    PLATE    III. 

SCALE SIXTEEN     FEET     TO    ONE     INCU. 

This  is  a  small  house,  which  will  be  pleasing  to  a 
good  many.  With  a  rough  and  picturesque  country  it 
will  be  particularly  in  keeping. 

The  piazza,  on  the  side  not  shown,  may  be  omitted, 
if  it  is  an  object  to  save  expense.  In  such  a  case,  the 
doors  opening  from  the  passage  into  it  will  be  unne- 
cessary. 

The  small  recess'  or  alcove,  opening  from  the  parlor, 
can  be  fitted  with  book-shelves  in  the  end,  and  with 
cushions;  and  be  divided  fi'om  the  room  with  a  good 
curtain.  (See  one  of  Mr.  Lang's  cottages,  near  Boston.) 
To  give  more  room,  it  might  be  fuiished  in  the  same 
manner  as  the  Uttle  porch — coming  up  with  a  square 
roof  to  near  the  eaves. 

The  back  window  of  the  parlor  should  open  on  to  the 
little  piazza. 

Cheap  estimate,  $1^,000. 


^■''*1m-  |!t_^. 


Kift- 


c  'i'-' 


f  •> 


Plazr^    lOrt 


^ 


ftssdti'e 


Pdrlct 
i6  <ga 


Kitchen 
,3  .16 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  35 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Lawyer  Derwent  was  evidently  pleased  with  the  EUi- 
sons — particularly,  it  seemed,  with  Uncle  Tom. 

"I  like  your  manner,"  he  was  in  the  habit  of  saying; 
"  it  has  that  bold  frankness  which  first  attracted  me  to 
General  Jackson.  Yes  sir ;  if  there  is  anything  I  like,  it  is 
frankness." 

Now  perhaps  Uncle  Tom  was  a  little  vain  of  his  ways ; 
at  any  rate,  Mr.  Derwent  was  agreeable  to  him.  When- 
ever Uncle  Tom  appeared  in  the  village,  the  lawyer  was 
sure  to  meet  him,  by  the  merest' accident  —  "the  most  for- 
tunate;" was  sure  to  consult  with  him — to  listen  to  him, 
with  marked  attention.  If  he  differed  with  him,  it  was  with 
great  fairness,  almost  with  a  doubt ;  so  that,  in  fact.  Uncle 
Tom  liked  him. 

Lawyer  Derwent  knew  a  great  deal  —  of  other  men's 
business.  He  knew  where  to  find  flaws  in  titles ;  how 
much  property  a  man  had;  and  what  his  investments 
yielded  him.  If  not  great,  he  was  shrewd — was  believed 
to  know  a  good  deal  more  than  he  did.  He  was  powerful, 
because  of  this.  Men  did  not  feel  exactly  safe  with  him. 
He  would  not  do  for  a  house  cat.  Nobody  could  say  any- 
thing against  him.  'T  was  strange,  perhaps,  he  was  the 
only  man  in  the  neighborhood  who  was  free  from  blame. 
He  was  one  of  the  blandest  of  men. 

"  When  my  son  returns,"  he  would  say,  "  I  trust  we  may 
strike  up  a  little  more  intimacy  and  sociability  among 
us? — not  leave  it  all   for  us  two  old  fellows  to  do.     He  's 


36  COTTAGKS     AM> 

a  wild  (!(»:;  I  iiiav  say  lie  was  one."  —  I  ik-Ic  'I'oin  Ijad 
once  said,  that  he  did  n  t  care  lor  sonic  ol"  the  extrava- 
gances ot"  youth,  so  that  they  were  lair  and  aboveboard  — 
"But  bold,  sir — and  not  at  all  reckless.  No  sir  —  while  in 
i\e\v  Orleans,  I  learn  he  has  been  successful.  Yes  sir  —  we 
must  try  to  jjet  tlie  young  people  together  to  enliven  us." 
He  did  return;  and  ii"  not  bold,  he  was  brisk.  However, 
he  was  a  mean  dog  —  that  was  the  dog  he  was;  and  not 
a  "  bold  dog"  at  all.  This  is  perhaps  prejudicing  the  reader  ; 
lor  many  people  thought  him  a  smart  and  desirable  young 
man. 

Lawyer  Derwent,  at  times,  introduced  politics,  which  in- 
terested every  one.  Uncle  Tom,  by  no  means  a  partizan, 
was,  as   usual,  quite   positive. 

"  In  a  new  country  like  this,"  he  would  say,  "  the  less 
bolstering  and  forcing  the  better.  Let  things  take  their  own 
time,  and  grow  up  naturally  and  healthily.  To  rival  Eng- 
land !    what   in   (Jod's   name  do   we  wish   to   do  that  for?" 

"Just   my   views,    sir,"  Mr.    Derwent  would  say. 

"  Why  there,"  Uncle  Tom  would  continue,  "  you  can't 
modify  the  corn  laws,  to  relieve  the  misery  of  one  part, 
lull  what  you  have  another  part  tumbling  about  your  ears. 
Let  sugar  come  in  and  .lamaica  is  ruined  —  Yankee  Hour, 
and  Canada  bolts  ! " 

"You  are  just  the  man  for  us."  says  iMr.  Derwent, 
"sound,  and  matter  of  fact.  Air.  Jjllison  you  must  come 
out  among  us.  The  country  needs  just  such  views  to 
be    laid   before  it." 

"  Pooh  !  "  exclaims  Uncle  Tom,  "  Old  Tom  Ellison  would 
make  a  fine  politician !  with  my  stock  of  rule  o'-thumb 
knowledge,  I   should  go   in  as  a  wise  law   maker !  ' 

"  Better  than  any  lawyer  of  us  all,"  Mr.  Derwent  would 
reply.     Pcrhaj)s  it  was  an  involuntary  truth. 


C  0  T  T  A  G  E     L  1  !■'  E  .  37 

But  from  day  to  day  the  idea,  assisted  by  lawyer  Dcr- 
weiit,  took  stronger  possession  of  Uncle  Tom's  mind,  that 
he  might  be  of  service  to  the  country.  What  if  he  should 
run  as  the  member  ?  However,  it  hardly  took  shape, 
while  he  remained  occupied  with  the  novelty  of  quarrying 
and  building. 

Mr.  Derwent  had  been  for  a  long  time  laying  a  founda- 
tion for  his  own  future  elevation !  but  with  his  usual 
unselfishness,  he  was  willing  to  relinquish  it  to  his  friend, 
if — he  had  any  other  purpose  to  accomplish  by  so  doing. 

Meanwhile  his  son  returned :  Harry  Derwent's  advent, 
of  course,  made  the  usual  sensation  in  a  country  neigh- 
borhood. On  the  first  Sunday  of  his  appearance,  many 
a  girl  thought  him  a  marriageable  young  man  :  very  natu- 
ral, surely.  Grace  Ellison  was  not  at  church,  and  there- 
fore was  less  interested  in  the  matter  than  she  might  have 
been.  It  must  be  said,  that  Harry,  with  a  wonderful  per- 
ception, natural  or  gained,  attended  the  smaller  Episcopal 
church,  rather  than  the  Methodist,  which  his  father  and 
mother  frequented: — perhaps  the  former  w^as  the  more 
fashionable  ?     Fashionable  ! 


38  C  O  T  T  A  G  E  S     A  N  D 


CIIAPTRPv     VIII. 

Grace  sat  by  her  window  in  one  of  the  8oft,|  moonlight 
evenings,  in  a  half  sad,  half  pleasing  reverie.  As  the 
south-west  wind  swept  across  the  river  and  fields,  it  came 
laden  with  the  spicy  breath  of  the  tree  flowers,  the  hum 
of  the  newly  born  insects,  and  the  fitful  sounds  of  the  wind 
instruments  from  the  military  station,  which  was  but  a 
few  miles  from  them. 

These  harmonized  with  her  present  thoughts,  which 
may  have  been  upon  the  "  great  problem"  at  which  so 
many  are  busy  at  present:  "What  am  I  here  for?" 
She  also  was  not  content  to  be  ;  but  .she  must  know 
why  —  for  what  reason?  She  should  have  applied  to  Mr. 
Loudon,  who  was  able,  or  said  he  was,  to  give  a  reason 
for  every  thing  he  did  (in  his  profession  —  at  five  guineas 
per  day). 

Now  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  tell  what  she  was 
made  for,  although  it  would  be  easy  enough.  In  this  tran- 
sition state  all  wish  for  action,  of  mind  and  body  :  to  be 
a  man,  then  —  to  be  great  or  rich,  or  tall  or  fat — something 
more  than  ones  neighbors.  Perhaps  Grace  Ellison  had  no 
wish  for  either  of  these;  but  had  some  unsatisfied  wish, 
which  after  a  time  made  her  restless,  so  that  she  walked 
out  upon  the  bank  which*  bordered  the  river,  and  found 
the  motion    agreeable. 

Unconsciously  her  eye  followed  a  small  boat  which 
crossed  the  broad  tract  of  moonlight  and  shot  in  under  the 


COTTAGELIFE.  39 

bank.     A  pleasant  voice,   which   at  first  seemed   known  to 
her,  sang   tlie   following  song:  — 


I. 

Come  gather  me  rose-buds  —  pluck  the  fresh  flowers  — 
Gather  the  fragrance  from  the  garden  bowers; 
And  with  them  a  beautiful  wreath  I  '11  twine, 
For  the  maid  who  has  stolen  this  heart  of  mine. 

II. 
I  love  her  high  soul, 

No  deceit  my  love  knows; 
'T  is  seen  in  the  leaves 

Of  this   blushing  red  rose; 
'T  is   pure   as   the   drop 

In   the   lilly's   white   bell, 
And  bright   to   the   last 

As   the  gay  Asphodel. 

III. 
The  blush  of  the  rose  bud,  the  violet's  dye, 
The  scent  of  the  lilly,  they  vanish  or  die ; 
But  the  fragrance  of  true  love,  the  bloom  of  the  heart, 
Grow  purer  and  fairer,  and  never  depart. 

IV. 

The   sunrise   of  youth. 

Is  rosy  and  gay, 
A   dehcate   halo 

Softens   each   rock   and   spray; 
Beware   of  the   vision 
•  Which   then   meets   the   sight: 

The   halo  will   vanish 

In   the   clear   coming   light. 


40  COTTAGES     AND 

"Ned!"  said  she,  as  the  sonj?  ceased,  "is  that  you?" 

"  Yes ! "  said  a  voice  close  beside  her,  at  which  she  star- 
ted in   some  surprise. 

"  Why  Ned,  I  half  thouf^ht  that  it  was  you  who  were  in 
the  boat." 

"  If  it  had  been  me,"  he  said,  "  I  am  afraid  you  would 
not  have  listened  so  closely.  No  ;  as  it  happened,  I  saw 
you  as  I  was  walking.  If  1  should  sing  to-night,  it  would 
not  be   of  that  kind." 

"What,  Ned,  are  you  in  the  doldrums?  My  soul,  too, 
was  a  little  dark  —  so  suppose  we  raise  one  another,"  she 
said,  passing  her  arm  through  his;  "but  who  do  you  sup- 
pose that  was  who  sang?" 

"  I  do  n't  know,  or  care,"  he  replied,  rather  pettishly. 

"  Let  my  name  be  blighted,"  said  Grace,  withdrawing  her 
arm;  "but  let  us  march  together,  if  at  all.  What  ails  the 
child?  Perhaps  you  will  be  bettered  if  I  sing  to  you  a  little 
song,  which  I  have  just  learned." 


s  0  N  a . 
I . 

"  When  eve  is  purpling  cliff  and  cave, 
Thoughts  of  the  heart,  so  soft  ye  flow, 
Not  softer  o'er  the  western  wave, 
The  golden  lines  of  sunset  glow. 

1 1 . 

"There  all  —  by  chance  or  fate  rcraovoil  — 
Like  spirits,  crowd  upon  the  eye; 

Tlic  t'i'w  we  likod  —  till'  (tnc  w«'  lnvotl. 
Aixl   tlir  wliiilc  lit'iirt    is   Mcniiiry 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  41 

III . 
"  This  life  is  like  a  failing  flower, 

It's  beauty  dying  as  we  gaze, 
Yet  as  the  shadows  round  us  lower, 

Heaven  pours  above  a  brigliter  blaze. 

IV. 

"When  morning  sheds  it's  gorgeous  dye. 
The  hopes,  the  heart,  to  earth  are  given; 

But  dark  and  lonely  ig  the  eye 

AVhich  turns  not,  at  it's  eve,  to  Heaven." — Croley. 

Ned*  took  her  hand  and  replaced  it  within  his  arm. 

"Grace,"  he  said,  "you  are  a  nice  girl,  and  I  am  —  not 
what  I  should  be,  ever  to  forget  it.  Now  who  this  singer 
is  ?  perhaps  one  of  the  officers  who  has  been  overcome  by 
your  beauty  ?  " 

"  Really,  this  is  very  handsome,  Ned ;  but  I  think  this  was 
not  one  of  them.  I  have  heard,  at  least,  of  their  accom- 
plishments." 

"  From  themselves  ?  May  be  young  Derwent,  who  has  just 
returned?"  said  Ned,  with  a  little  doubt. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  she ;  "  but  we  will  leave  this.  Now, 
why   are   you   savage,  to-night  ? " 

"  I  hardly  know,  myself,"  Ned  replied.  "  I  feel  myself  an 
unnecessary  appendage  to  this  life  of  ours.  I  am  quite  good 
for  nothing — fit  for  nothing — and  that  it  is  not  I  alone 
who  suspects  this." 

"  Is  it  nothing,  Ned,  that  Uncle  Tom  depends  upon  you 
in  various  ways  —  that  Uncle  John  spends  his  time  in  read- 
ing and  talking  with  you — that  I  depend  upon  you  in  all 
my  little  difficulties — that  you  teach  me  to  draw,  to  ride, 
to  study.     Are  these  nothing?" 

"No  —  these  are  something;  but  I  get  nowhere  —  I  arrive 
at  nothing." 
6 


42  c. otta(;es   and 

"  All  in  ffon<l  timp,  Ned,"  sho  said.  "Do  n't  neglect  these, 
in  looking  out  for  .something  wliicii  i.s  no  better,  and  which 
will   be  just  as  tasteless   in  the   mouth." 

"Yes,"  said  Ned;  "but  1  am  fit  for  nothing.  Trade  I 
detest — the  liberal  professions  1  could  not  take  hold  of,  if  I 
would.  Where  shall  I  go?  liVery  man  needs  some  occu- 
pation in  ord<'r  to  get  hi.s  faculties  into  use,  to  feel  his  own 
strength.  ■ 

"Do  not  be  impatient  —  it  is  the  vice  of  the  day.  Art 
and    agriculture  are    always  open." 

"  In  the  one,"  he  said,  "  I  may  drag  on  over  the  level  ways 
of  mediocrity ;  in  the  other,  stupify  myself  in  rai.sing  what 
I  eat,  and  eating  what  1  raise  !  " 

"  Well  Ned,"  said  Grace,  as  they  reached  the  house, 
"  sleep  will  do  you  good.  To-morrow's  sun  will  clear  away 
some  of  these  unliealthy  vapors.     Good  night!" 

When  she  reached  her  room,  she  heard  from  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  river  the  breathings  of  the  flutes  through  her 
open  window.  She  knew  the  sounds  were  from  Mrs.  Schuy- 
ler's little  box  (see  Plate  No.  IV  );  where  in  the  summer 
months  she  passed  her  time;  her  children  growing  in  all 
ways.  At  the  end  of  each  week  her  husband  hastened 
away  from  his  city  pursuits;  often  with  a  friend,  as  in  this 
case;  and  refre.-«hed  himself  in  health  and  heart  for  the 
coming   week. 

"Why  could  not  Ned  do  so?"  Grace  thought;  'such  a 
life  is  certainly  pleasant  —  yes,  delightful,  for  the  woman." 
And  this  led  her  on  to  a  train  of  thought,  which  possi- 
bly resulted  in  this,  which  she  said  half  aloud  —  '•  \\'onien 
do  sometimes  have  the  best  of  it,  though  they  will  not 
often    think    .so." 


>^^-' 


r/.^cii- 


;       r,.rvfi 


C  O  T  T  A  G  E     L  1  F  E .  4;i 


DESCRIPTION     OF    PLATE     IV. 

This  is  a  small  and  cheap  house,  to  be  built  of  wood: 
the  maiii  body  of  the  house,  containing  the  large  room 
and  the  sleeping  closets,  being  twenty-one  by  twenty- 
two  and  a  half  feet.  In  the  parlor  I  have  indicated  two 
closets  at  the  end  opposite  the  fii-e-place ;  if  these  are 
not  made,  it  would  leave  the  room  twenty  feet  long.  The 
kitchen  is  built  on,  with  a  shed  roof  which  runs  across 
the  back  of  the  house.  The  small  wing  may  be  omitted 
if  there  is  no  use  for  it.  But  in  case  of  sickness,  the 
fire-place  would  make  it  very  convenient,  if  not  necessary. 
At  the  back  is  a  glass  door,  which  may  be  made  into  a 
window,  or  a  close  door,  if  preferred. 

The  small  sleeping  closets  are  large  enough  to  hold  a 
bed  and  wash-stand.  They  may  open  into  the  large  room 
with  a  doubling  door,  or  may  be  permanently  closed  fi'om 
it.  The  one  next  the  kitchen,  if  used  for  a  servant, 
should  have  the  *  door  opening  into  it,  rather  than  into  the 
passage. 

The  platform  in  front  is  shaded  by  a  roof  of  eight  feet. 
If  desirable  it  might  be  extended  the  whole  front. 

Rough  estimate,  $575. 


i4  COTTAGES     AND 


CHAPTI-K      l\. 

Tin;  iKxl  morning  Grace  was  busying  herself  about  her 
household  matters,  with  her  Jemima,  who  was  rapidly  be- 
coming initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  civilization.  She 
stepped  into  the  little  porch  about  ten  o'clock,  in  her  mor- 
ning dress,  where  she  found  Jim  Haskill  sitting  on  the  step, 
with  his  gun,  and  a  beautiful  little  cocking  spaniel,  which 
he   was   instructing   in   the   art   of   fetching   a   glove. 

"  Ah  !  Miss  Grace,"  he  said,  "  I  like  to  see  you,  in  the 
mornings,  with  those  nice  little  French  dresses  —  they  are 
French,  they  say  ?  If  your  governor  gits  into  politics,  he  '11 
soon  put  a  stop  to  anything  but  home  manufacter." 

"  Laws  and  bayonets  are  good  for  nothing  against  U3 
women,  Jim.'' 

"Would  you  go  agin  law  now?"  he  asked;  "Well,  1  like 
that.  When  I  see  a  good  plump  partridge,  its  ag'in  the  grain 
to  let  him  off,  and  its  ag'in  the  law  to  shoot  him." 

"  Which  do  yt'U  follow?"    she  asked. 

"  If  it  's  the  right  season,"  said  Jim,  with  a  non-commit- 
talism worthy  of  a  great  man,  "I  shoot;  and  if  it's  the 
wrong  one,  I  do  n't." 

"  But  you  know  that,  as  well  as  the  law?" 

"  Jest  so,"  said  Jim,  quite  pleased  with  her  intelligence. 

Grace  took  the  opportunity  to  say,  "  Uncle  Tom  do  n't 
like  to  have  you  shoot  his  birds." 

'^  His  birds!"  said  Jim,  turning  upon  her,  "are  they  his 
birds,  when  they  fly  down  out  of  the  air,  or  from  the 
mountains,  upon  this  patch  of  land  which  he  s  got  a  fence 


COTTAGE     LIFE. 


45 


around?    That  wont  do.     I  reckon  they  're  God's  birds  any 
way  while  they  fly,  and  mine  when  I  can  shoot  'em." 

"  But,  Jim,  you  will  remember  that  it  may  be  disagreea- 
ble to  him   to   have   people   shooting   about    where  he  is?" 

Jim  softened  a  little,  as  he  said,  "  that  's  true  enough ; 
but  when  a  man  comes  into  a  place,  who  is  called  rich, 
we  are  on  the  look  out,  that  he  do  n't  git  the  upper  hand 
of  us.  We  hope  to  git  more  from  him  than  he  can  from 
us.  He  ought  to  keep  quiet  under  the  bush,  and  not  ask 
for  much  till  we  get  used  to  him ;  and  find  out  if  he  's 
honest  —  eh?" 

Grace,  thinking  it  best  to  let  this  rest,  admired  Jim's 
dog,  which  was  a  beauty. 

"I  can't  let  you  have  Jule  ;"  he  said,  "but  one  of  her 
pups  I  '11  bring  you  by  and  by.  I  love  Jule,  and  Bessie 
loves  her  too." 

"  Who  is  Bessie  ?"  Grace  asked. 

Jim's  face  slightly  changed,  as  he  said,  "she  lives  with 
me  up  the  mountain.  I  'm  not  alone.  She  is  a  good  girl, 
and  loves  me :  but,  Miss  Grace,  she  's  not  quite  right 
here,"  touching  his  head ;  "  she  knows  the  fairies.  She  's, 
let  me  see,  she  's  now  sixteen  years  old,  come  July." 

Jim  saw  at  a  distance  a  horseman  coming  up  the  road, 
and  hastily  rummaged  in  his  cap  for  a  note,  which  he  gave 
to  Grace.    It  went  thus  : 

Mr.  H.  Derwent  will  do  himself  the  pleasure  of  calling 
upon  Miss  Ellison,  to-morrow. 

"When  did  you  get  this?"   she  said. 

"  Yesterday — and  there  he  comes  right  on  the  trail  of  it 
—  lightning  after  the  thunder.  A  goose's  liver  in  a  fox's 
skin,"  he  muttered. 


45  CO  T  1"  A  G  K S     A  N  D 

As  he  came  nearer,  his  horse  advanced  with  that  pecu- 
liar sideliniLj  gait  which,  in  the  estimation  of  some  persons, 
ip  graceful,  in  that  of  others  ridiculous.  Jims  observation 
was, — 

"  He  sees  an  angel  in  the  way,  like  Baalam's  ass,  and 
straddles  it— eh?  But  Miss  Grace,  aint  you  going  to  run 
away,   and   slick   your   hair." 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  it  's  not  best  to  be  too  captivating  at 
first." 

The  rider  dismounted  under  the  shade  of  a  tree — calhng, 
"  here  sir,  hold  my  horse  ! " 

"Certainly,"  said  Jim,  walking  leisurely,  "certainly;  —  but 
he  do  n't  seem  to  want  very  much  holdin'  (jerking  the 
bridle)  ;  you  've  let  out  what  little  there  was  to  hold, 
with  your   spurs." 

"  Why  Jim  1  did  n't  know  you  at  first.  You  see  my 
eyes   are    rather   close." 

"  As   wide   as   mine,"   he  said,   looking    at   them. 

"Well  —  well,  take  care  of  the  horse?"  He  then  walked 
to  the  porch,  and  expecting,  of  course,  that  a  young  lady 
would  be  careful  of  her  complexion,  he  asked  of  Grace,  "If 
Miss  Ellison  was  at  home?"     Then,  "  If  he  could  see  her?" 

"  I  am  she,"  Grace   answered. 

"  Oh !  all  !  bog  pardon.  Mr.  Derwcnt  's  my  name.  My 
father  wished  me  to  ride  over  and  make  your  acquaintance ; 
but  really  1  needed  nothing  but  my  own  inclination  to  in- 
duce me   to  perform  so  pleasant   a  duty." 

As  he  had  at  first  supposed  her  to  be  a  servant  girl,  Grace 
thought  this  was  very  well,  lie  proceeded  through  some  of 
the   common    j)laces,  to    the   more    abstruse   matters,  of  life. 

"  But  tell  me.  Miss  Ellison,  do  n't  you  find  it  inexpres- 
sibly dull,  here  ?      No  balls,  no  parties,  no   theaters.      Now, 


COTTAGELIFE.  47 

I  am  passionately  fond  of  those  things.  My  father  wishes 
me    to    live  here,   but   1   can  't  do  it;  I   have   tried  in  vain." 

"  You  should  not  sacrifice  yourself,"  said  she,  with  a 
smile,   "  at  your    age,  and    with   your   advantages." 

He  bowed. 

"So  I  told  him.  I  told  him  that  this  was  no  place  for 
a   young   man.      The  world   is  the  true  theater  of  action." 

"The  country's  only  fit  for  cows  and  poetry,"  said 
Grace.  v 

His  stock  of  "  conversation"  was  wonderful  and  ready. 
He  went  on  without  paying  much  attention  to  what  she 
said. 

"  I  hope  you  are  fond  of  poetry  ?  Byron  and  Moore 
are  exquisite.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  am  in  another  state 
of  existence.  All  these  low  and  sublunary  things  vanish, 
when   the   mind  is  filled  with   the   nobler  sentiments." 

"  Did  you  never  think  of  turning  your  attention  to  the 
church  ?  "  asked   Grace. 

"Ah!  I  fear,  Miss  Ellison,  you  do  not  understand  me. 
Between  poetry  and  music,  it  seems  to  me,  I  could  for- 
ever  spend  my  days." 

"Do   you   sing,  yourself?"   she    asked. 

"  I  sometimes  throw  ofi"  some  little  thing  about  the  flow- 
ers,  or   the   afiiections,  just   to   while   away  an   idle   hour." 

Grace  expressed  some  sympathy  for  the  poor  things,  and 
thought  that  this  would  possibly  explain  the  song  of  the 
night  before.  She  was  amused  at  his  reliance  —  at  his 
glibness.  What  an  art  it  is  —  and  so  easily  cultivated  ! 
Glibness  and  eftVontery  are  more  than  a  match  for  wit, 
for  present  use — but  do  not  keep  so  well  in  all  seasons. 
At  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  Grace  called  his  atten- 
tion   to   .Tim     Haskell,   who,    having    stripped    the    horse    of 


48 


cotta(;ks    and 


his  saddle,  wan  riding  him  with  a  strone:  switcli,  at  a 
fence,    which    he    relused    to   leap. 

"  Damn  the  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Denvent,  in  his  surprise; 
'•he  11,  kill  the  horse  ! ''  And  there  was  danger,  if  the  horse 
had   risen   and  balked,  of  his    ruining   himself  and   Jim   too. 

Dcrwcnt  tripi)ed  and  skipped  along  in  the  best  way  he 
could,  with  his  straps,  tight  waistcoat,  and  good  manners, 
to  prevent  such  a  catastrophe  ;  which,  if  poetical,  certainly 
would  not  have  been  profitable ;  as  the  horse  belonged  to 
his  father,  who  had  the  exalted  opinion  of  him  which  is 
common   to   the   owners   of  these   animals. 

"Stop,   Jim  —  you   scoundrel — stop!" 

"  What  's  the  matter  ? "  said  he,  in  reply,  pretending 
some  surprise.  "  Do  you  want  to  try  him  yourself?  Vou  "d 
better   not  —  he   can  't   do   it." 

"  Do  it  ?  A  pretty  lather  you  've  got  the  old  man's 
horse   into.     You   ought   to   be   tarred   and  feathered ! " 

"  We  do  n't  fix  men  in  that  way,  here,"  said  Jim,  with 
an  emphasis,  as  he  got  off  the  horse,  which  Derwent 
perhaps   understood.      "I   wouldn't   hurt  your   horse." 

"  But  what  shall  I  do  ?"  Derwent  asked.  "  1  can  't  take 
him    home    in    this   way  ? "' 

•  1  11  clean  him  ofi'  for  you,"  said  Jim,  "for  a  dollar, 
and  walk  him,  and  breathe  him.  It  11  do  him  good.  He 
wont   go  slab-sided   agin,    1   11   warrant." 

Derwent,  as  he  returned  to  finish  his  call,  muttered  to 
himself,  "  1  '11  pay  him  for  this  !  "  But  he  talked  up  his 
loose  stuif,  and  came  again  the  next  day,  much  to  Ned's 
annoyance  and  to  (irace's  entertainment.  She  could  laugh 
at  him  with  I'ncle  John  and  A\'d;  though  she  never  left 
them    quite    certain    as    to    her   real    opinion. 

Uncle  Tom  would  hear  nothing  disparaging  respecting 
him,    while    willi    ihf    cldrr    Derwent    his    acquaintance    and 


COTTAGE    LIFE.  49 

intimacy  increased.  Upon  the  pretense  of  wishing  to  invest, 
he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Uncle  Tom's  confidential 
agent  in  the  city.  Perhaps  this  was  the  true  reason ;  but  he 
was  a  man  who  had  many  ways  —  many  agents.  Uncle 
John  was  getting  to  be  interested  in  the  politics  of  the 
county,  and  with  Derwent  he  often  conferred.  As  for 
Uncle  John,  he  had  some  plans  in  his  head  which  took 
him  quite  frequently  to  a  little  manufacturing  village  in 
the  neighborhood ;  while  Ned  was  busied,  among  other 
things,  in  pruning  and  training  —  in  examining  the  points 
of  Durhams,  and  the  heads  of  pigs.  Without  balls,  par- 
ties,  or  theaters,   the   days   were   got  through   with. 


50  r.OTTAfJKS      AN1> 


CHAPTER    X. 

But  Ned,  being  a  young  man,  had  fits  of  depression 
and  moodiness,  followed  by  those  of  the  contrary  charac- 
ter, lie  would  say  :  "  Why  is  it  that  people  do  not  go 
crazy?  An  out  and  out  crazy  man  would  be  a  comfort, 
among  the  fools  and  scoundrels  with  which  the  world  is 
filled."  He  needed  not  to  have  said  it  so  forcibly ;  for, 
there  were  just  about  him,  Uncle  Tom  and  Uncle  John, 
Mr.  Ellcry  and  Mr.  Scranton,  or  Scran,  as  Jim  Haskell 
called  him  —  none  of  whom  were  either  knaves  or  fools ; 
but  one  swallow  does  make  a  summer  sometimes.  Ned, 
at  these  times,  had  no  confidence  in  himself,  in  the  world, 
or  in  his  friends.  Even  Grace's  company  he  shunned.  He 
had  decided  over  and  over  again  to  talk  with  Uncle  John  ; 
but  as  often  hesitated ;  for  what  did  he  wish  to  do  or 
to   say  ? 

He  left  his  walk  upon  the  little  piazza  as  the  lawyer 
Derwent,  rode  up,  who  was  soon  engaged  in  close  con- 
versation  with   Uncle   Tom. 

"  I  have  spoken,"  he  said,  "  to  some  of  our  most  in- 
fluential men,  and  they  are  satisfied,  I  think,  that  we  can 
unite  with  greater  strength  upon  a  new  man  —  one  who 
combines  position  in  the  community,  with  decision  and 
right  principles.  There  never  was  a  better  opportunity 
for  a  man  to  be  of  service  to  the  state"  (to  another  man 
he  might,  no  doubt,  have  said,  "signalize  himself"),  "  than 
the   present.     Wo   arc   on    the    eve  of  great   movements." 

"Wo    nrr    on    the     eve."     snid    TTncle    Tom.    "of  trouble, 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  51 

I  fear — out  of  politics.  When  wheat  is  at  a  dollar  and  a 
half  a  bushel,  and  money  at  three  per  cent,  a  month,  it 
is  time  to  look  for  storms.  It  is  unnatural,  and  must 
come   to    a  head." 

"  It  is  a  time,"  said  Mr.  Derwent,  "  when  cool  heads  and 
honest  hearts  are  needed  in  places  of  trust ;  and  it  is  a 
man's  duty,  sir, —  yes,  he  has  no  right  to  refuse  to  sac- 
rifice the   public   interest   to   his   own." 

"  I  have  no  political  knowledge  beside  what  has  come 
in  the  way  of  experience,"  replied  Uncle  Tom,  not  in 
quite  so  abasing  terms  as  before ;  "  but  I  was  one  of  the 
few  mercantile  men  who  did  not  believe  that  it  was  vital 
for  us  to  have  a  controlling  bank ;  or  that  we  should  not 
grow  without  high  tariffs  and  protections.  The  forcing  policy, 
the  stimulating  policy,  have  developed  the  country  and  de- 
graded the  people.  Depend  upon  it,  sir,  the  forced  growth 
is  not  good — is  not  healthy;  it  never  was  —  it  never  will 
be !  "    said  Uncle  Tom,  striking  the  table  with   his  fist. 

Cool  heads  !  with  an  emphasis.  "  Those,"  said  Mr. 
Derwent,  "  are  just  the  views  which  I  wish  to  see  you 
put  forward ;  views  which  I  have  long  entertained  !  But 
there  is  another  subject  upon  which  I  wish  to  speak  with 
you,"   he   said,   hesitating. 

"Well  —  go  on  —  don't  put  it  off" — there  is  no  time  like 
the  present." 

"It  is    about   my  son,    Harry  — " 

"Not  in  trouble,  I  hope?"    said   Uncle    Tom. 

"Oh,  no  —  far  from  that,  I  trust.  But  he  has  come  home 
greatly  improved  —  greatly  benefited  by  his  intercourse  with 
mankind;  (we  shall  see.)  I  am  naturally  anxious  to  see 
him  settled  and  prosperous  in  life.  1  can  perceive,  to  come 
directly  to  the  point,  that  he  has  ,a  great  liking  to  Miss 
Grace,  whom,   I    must    say,  I   greatly    love ;    and  would   be 


52  (;  O  T  T  A  G  E  S     A  N  D 

proud  that  she  niif,'ht  bind  us  closer  together,  if  it  be  pos- 
sible, than  we  now  are;  but" — seeing  Uncle  Tom  was  a 
little  fidgety — "  1  merely  suggest  this  now,  and  have  no 
other   purpose." 

"  Things  must  take  their  own  course,"  said  Uncle  Tom. 
"  I  Ml  not  interfere  in  such  matters,  except  under  great 
necessity." 

"  You  would  not  object,  1  believe,"  said  jMr.  iJerwenl, 
"  if  they  should  mutually  come  to  this  determination  of 
themselves?" 

"  1  know  nothing  against  the  young  man,"  said  Uncle 
Tom,  who  was  fond  and  proud  of  Grace,  "  and  her  wish 
would   go  a  great   way   with   me ;   but   I  '11    not   meddle." 

As  Mr.  Ellery  and  Mr.  Scranton  now  came  up,  Mr.  Der- 
went  left,  saying,  that  he  should  on  the  morrow  leave 
for  the  city,  and  would  be  happy  to  be  of  service,  <k.c. 
The  gentlemen  then  walked  over  to  the  site  of  the  new 
house,  where  their  conversation  naturally  turned  on  build- 
ing. Mr.  Scranton  and  Mr.  Ellery,  having  both  built  houses, 
felt  ready  and  willing  to  give  the  result  of  their  experience. 

"  The  man  who  builds  a  house,"  said  Mr.  Ellery,  "  builds 
it  for  all  the  world.  If  it  is  disagreeable,  I  am  hurt  by 
it ;  if  beautiful,  I  am  pleased.  Architecture,  if  not  the 
highest  art,  is  a  universal  one.  The  good  inlluences  of 
neatness,  order,  beauty  —  yes,  and  virtue,  are  extended  as 
much   by  it,  as   by  some  preaching." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Scranton,  "that's*  a  new  view.  I  did 
not  think  of  it ;  but  some  years  ago,  a  man  came  into 
the  town  \vhere  I  lived,  and  set  about  painting  and  brush- 
ing up,  and  all  lollowcd  his  lead  ;  and  men,  who  had  been 
worthless,  began  to  save  their  wages  for  the  purpose.  But 
let  me  tell  you,  Ellison,  of  some  things  which  you  ought 
to  see   to  : 


COTTAGELIFE.  53 

"  Have  a  good  bin  in  the  cellar,  for  fuel,  with  a  win- 
dow opening  into  it  from  the   outside." 

"What's  that  for?"  suggested  Uncle  Tom's  man,  John, 
in  a  low  voice,  as  he  rested  on  his  spade. 

"  A  good,  large  closet,   too,  for  wine ;  and   so   on." 

"  Here  's  trouble  right  off —  look  not  on  the  wine  when 
't  is  red  !  "  muttered  John. 

"  A  gpod  oven  built  into  the  chimney  —  and  large  flues 
to  carry  off  the  smoke,  twelve  by  twelve  inches,  and  not 
contracted   as   they  go  up  —  be   careful   of  that! 

"  Have  the  two  upper  courses  of  the  cellar  wall  laid  in 
water   cement,   to   keep  the  damp   from   rising. 

"  Good   stone   is  the  best,"  reflected   John. 

"  An  open  flue  in  the  chimney,  to  carry  out  dampness 
from  the   cellar. 

"  Do  n't  make  your  ceilings  over  thirteen  feet  high  — 
twelve   feet   is    enough,   even  for   large   rooms. 

"  Make   one  large  window  rather  than  two  small  ones. 

"Provide  for  the  ventilation  of  the  garret,  or  space  above 
the   chambers,  or  they  will  necessarily  be  hot." 

"  Let  me  add  a  word,"  said  Uncle  John.  "  Do  n't  paint 
the  walls,  inside  or  out,  white.*  It  is  painful  to  the  eyes, 
and  uneconomical.  Do  n't  try  to  make  a  wooden  house 
look  like    a  stone  one. 

"  Do  n't  paint  doors  in  imitation  of  mahogany,  but  of 
the  same  tone    as   the  walls,  a  little  darkened. 

"  If  yom'  kitchen  is  in  the  basement,  provide  a  sliding 
closet. 

"  And  above  all,  employ  honorable  builders,  if  you  can 
find  them,  for  the  others  will  cheat  you;  and  even  with 
the   best,    specify    every    thing  you   can    think    of    in   your 

*  See  "Downing's  Cottage  Residences,"  for  shades. 


5.1  COTTAGES     A  N  D 

contracts,  and  do  n't  leave  any  ihim;  to  be  clone  in  a 
workman-like    manner.'   '    • 

"How  can  one  build  a  good  ice-housr  in  this  (-lay 
8ub-Boil?"    asked    Uncle   Tom. 

Mr.  Scranton  proceeded  to  make  plans  anil  tliagrain.s 
upon    the   ground,  ibr  the   ibllowing  description  : 

For   an   ice-house — take    this   receipt —  , 

"  Dig  into  the  north  side  of  a  bank,  if  you  iiave  one 
convenient  —  at  any  rate,  where  it  is  sheltered  from  the 
sun  —  say  fifteen  feet  square  each  way.  Plank  up  the 
four  sides  strongly,  and  lay  a  good  two  inch  oak  plank 
lioor,  letting  it  slope  a  little  outwards,  and  leaving  a  door- 
way on  the  side  which  ,is  not  against  the  earth.  In  this 
inclosure  build  an  ice-house,  of  inch  board.s  nailed  on  to 
the  two  sides  of  six  inch  joists,  filling  up  the  space  with 
tan.  Between  this  wall  and  the  outer  one  of  plank  leave 
a  space  of  two  feet  on  the  sides,  three  feet  on  the  front 
where  the  door  is,  and  one  on  the  back.  This  will  be  an 
air  chamber,  will  j)rotect  the  ice,  and  will  be  a  most  ex- 
cellent place  to  stand  some  butter,  or  wine.  Be  always 
careful  to  keep  the  door  nhut  and  locked.  In  the  bottom, 
it  is  well  to  lay  a  course  of  broken  stones,  so  that  the 
drainage  will  be  perfect.  In  the  roof  you  will,  also,  leave 
a  door,  through  which  you  fill  the  house ;  and  also  a  tube, 
so  that  over-charged  air  can  escape.  If,  when  the  ice  is 
put  in,  each  layer,  after  being  broken,  is  sprinkled  with 
salt-water,  it  is  said  to  preserve  it  greatly.  I  have  never 
tried  it. 

"  Remember  that  the  inner  house  should  be  perfectly 
isolated  on  five  sides.  Such  a  house  can  be  put  up  for 
thirty  or  tbrty  dollars,   and  will   last  a  life  time." 

"Ice,"    said    Mr.    Ellery,    "does   not    seem    to    have    been 


lOE    HOUSE 
{1  54 


^5?^^g^ 


i 


D 


^     *     1      (•      * 


i  .   I 


J^ 


^T^N 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  55 

known  among  the  Greeks ;  and  is  one  of  the  fine  improve- 
ments which  show  an  advance  which,  if  slow,  is  still  a 
progress  — " 

"Towards  a  colder   latitude,"  said    Uncle  John. 

Mr.  Ellery  seemed  suspended  between  the  curious  demo- 
cracy of  Greece,  which  lay  behind,  and  the  reign  of  univer- 
sal brotherhood,  which  lay  before;  so  that  often,  as  Ned 
said,  he  dwelt  in  the  great  realm  of  No- where. 

"  In  the  investigations  which  have  been  made  as  to  their 
domestic  life,  many  vases  have  been  found  which  seem  to 
have  been  appropriate  for  the  cooling  of  wines  by  evapo- 
ration, and  for  nothing  else." 

"  Very  true,"  said  Ned  ;  "  and  it  is  a  little  strange  that 
men  go  into  extravagances  over  old  pots  which,  if  made 
now,  would  not  certainly  be  placed  in  the  parlor  if  allowed 
in  the  kitchen." 

"  Many  of  their  vessels,"  continued  Mr.  Ellery,  "  were  ex- 
ceedingly elaborate  and  beautiful ;  and  for  the  bath  a  great 
variety  of  elegant  forms  have  been  discovered.  We  might 
take  example  from  them  in  this  particular." 

"  Except,"  said  Mr.  Scranton,  "  that  we  do  n't  have  time 
for  all  these  things.  It  's  very  well  to  be  all  day  washing 
and  dressing,  and  trimming  and  fussing,  over  one's  poor 
bodv,  if  there  is  no  business  to  be  done." 

"But  if  there  be,"  said  Ned,  "the  dirtier  the  better  —  a 
man  then  is  not   afraid  to  take  hold ;  is  that  it  ? " 

"Exactly  so,"  replied  Mr.   Scranton. 

"  But,  about  bathing  ?  "  inquired  Uncle  .lohn,  "  that  is  in- 
dispensable." 

"  For  that  I  have  a  boiler  behind    the    kitchen  chimney." 

"That's  all  nonsense,"  said  Uncle  Tom's  man,  John, 
who  had  curiously  listened  to  all  which  had  been  said  — 
"  when   you   have   a  nice    river  close   tu." 


.-)(•,  r.  ( )  T  T  A  G  K  SAND  • 

"  It  is  desirable    in    winter,"   said    Uncle  John. 

"  I  should  think  a  pail  would  du.  We  never  had  any 
thing  else  where  I  come  from  —  and  we  was  healthy 
enough." 

"Mind  your  work,  John,"  said  Uncle  Tom. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  will.  There,  the  old  w^omen  never  died  — 
they  kind  o'  dried  up  —  and  then  we  used  to  hang  'em  up 
with  the  horse  tails  and  pumpkin  skins,  and  they  never 
dript   the   least  bit.     I  knew  a   house — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !"  said  Uncle  Tom,  whose  "cool  head" 
was  somewhat  excitable,  and  who  had  tried  in  vain  to 
keep  John's  tongue   in  order. 

"  I  only  spoke,"  said  John,  Avho  proceeded  with  his  ac- 
count of  the  house  to  Ned,  after  the  others  had  walked  on ; 
out  of  which  Ned  framed  a  sketch,  for  Grace's  enter- 
tainment. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  57 


CHAPTER    XI. 

Let  us  postpone  Ned's  story  for  a  few  moments,  to 
glance  a  little  at  Mr.  Derwent's  movements.  He  left  the 
house,  after  his  conversation  with  Uncle  Tom,  a  little  less 
confident  than  he  wished  to  have  been  as  to  his  son's 
success  with  Grace ;  but  pretty  sure  that  her  father  would 
not,  at  least,  oppose  him.  With  the  restlessness  of  an 
ambitious  and  intriguing  mind,  he  reached  out  in  all  direc- 
tions, and  had,  through  the  assistance  of  Wainwright,  Uncle 
Tom's  confidential  agent,  waded,  cautiously  and  carefully, 
ankle  deep,  into  the  great  dismal  swamp  of  stock  specula- 
tion, where  bulls  and  bears  trample  and  toss  to  their  hearts' 
content.  We  see  him,  now,  proceeding  carefully  down  the 
street;  —  its  flags  worn  and  thin,  with  footsteps  of  the 
pilgrims  to  the  golden  shrine  —  or,  as  it  might  then  have 
been  called,  the  "paper  shrine";  —  watchfully  —  carefully  — 
he  sees  all  —  notes  all.  No  man  of  wealth — none  of  name — 
w^hom   he   recognizes,   but    receives   from    him   due   respect. 

In  his  small  room,  he  ferrets  out  Wainwright  —  the  man 
of  trust,  whose  labors  were  for  others'  good.  A  living, 
for  a  long  time,  had  satisfied  him;  and  this  was  secure, 
to  the  man  who  could  hold  safely  the  names  and  wealth 
of  rich  men  in  his  hand  —  Uncle  Tom's,  with  others. 
'T  was  rather  before  the  hurry  of  business  hours,  and 
Wainwright  closed  the  book  of  his  private  accounts  when 
Derwent  entered. 
8 


58  C  O  T  T  A  G  K  S     A  N  D 

"  Well,"  asked  Mr.  Derwcnt,  "  what  is  going  on  in  the 
street  ?  —  anything  new  ?  " 

"Nothing  strange.  I  sold  your  Harlem  yesterday,  for — 
eighty  seven:  — "  Mr.  Derwent's  eyes  twinkled,  the  least 
possible.      "  A   pretty   good   operation  ?  —  " 

"  Yes.  So,  so,"  Mr.  Derwent  replied,  with  his  calm  and 
wiry  jnanncr.  "What's  in  the  market  now?"  He  had 
been  successful,  —  had  made  his  thousand  without  working 
for  it.  Good!  let's  try  again; — the  appetite  increases! 
Sharks   can   be   led   on,  to   swallow   hot  cannon  balls  ! 

Wainwright  hesitated  for  an  instant ;  perhaps  to  run  over 
the  best  chances  for  his  client.  He  turned  his  chair  a 
little  towards  him:  "We  are  to  have  —  there  will  be," 
correcting  himself,  "  a  corner  in  Morrison  Railroad.  If 
you  buy    at   sixty  days,  it  is    a  sure   card." 

Mr.  Derwent  talked  it  over  more  fully;  —  did  not  decide 
upon  it  then,  —  would  determine  hereafter.  But  he  was 
shrewd  and  suspicious.  "We  are  to  have?"  "Is  that  it, 
Wainwright?"  "Have  you,  too,  waded  in?"  were,  perhaps, 
the  questions  which  suggested  themselves. 

But  why  should  he  not  wade  in?  Wliy  should  Wain- 
wright all  his  life  drudge  lor  others?  He  saw  fortunes 
made  daily  —  made  them  himself;  but  for  other  men.  He 
had  always  been  an  honorable  man ;  he  would  not  now,  for 
the  chances  of  being  rich,  —  he  certainly  would  not  risk 
his  good  name? — would  not,  in  any  way,  betray  the  trusts 
which    for    so    long   a  time  had    been    confided  to   him  ? 

Derwent  did  buy  the  Morrison;  but  not  through  Wain- 
wright. He  satisfied  himself  that  what  he  had  told  him 
was  true ;  and  he  also  satisfied  himself  that  he  was  one 
of  the  bulls; — that  he  surely  was  wading  into  the  dismal 
swamp. 


G  0  T  T  A  G  E     L  I F  E .  59 


CHAPTER   XII. 

Uncle  Tom  tried  to  read  his  journal  in  the  evening.  Not- 
withstanding the  occasional  annoyances  from  the  moths, 
who  would  singe  their  wings  in  his  candle,  and  the  beetles, 
whose  drone  ceased  as  they  came  to  rest  on  the  few  locks 
which  yet  remained  to  him,  he  read  on.  But,  fatigued  as 
he  was  with  a  hot  summer's  day,  he  dozed  and  nodded 
until  the  rattle  of  his  spectacles  upon  the  candle-stick  re- 
called him  to  his  repast.  He  read  on  again  with  assiduity, 
while  Uncle  John,  with  equal   patience,  smoked  his  cigar. 

Grace  and  Ned  sat  under  one  of  the  trees,  because  it 
was  pleasanter.  Every  one  has  remarked,  how  soon  for- 
mality is  dropped  when  once  out  of  doors,  with  only  the 
sky  above,  and  the  green  earth  beneath.  Grace  drew  her 
shawl  more  closely  around  her,  for  the  sea  breeze  had  now 
reached  them,  as  Ned  related  the   story  of 

THE     DOUBLE. 

Young  Tomlinson — James  Tomlinson — had  landed  at  New 
York,  after  having  been  in  service  under  Hull,  in  the  last 
war.  His  father  lived  on  the  Sound,  near  Stratford,  and 
was  one  of  the  gentlemen  and  "  scholars"  of  the  day.  He 
had  for  some  time  expected  this  visit  from  his  son,  who, 
having  a  short  leave  of  absence,  was  now  hastening  toward 
his  home.  Having  two  suits  of  clothes,  which  probably  is 
not  often  the  case  with  naval  and  military  persons,  he  had 


(50  C  ()  T  T  A  G  K  S     AND 

chosen   to   walk    up  to  tlie    stage  ofRce,  which   was    then  in 
tlic   old    'Walton   House,"   in   the   dress    of  a   gentleman. 

"Dam'  me.  but  1  am  glad  to  see  you,  PVankfort,"  said  a 
tinely  made  young  man.  "Where  have  you  kept  yourself?" 
He  was  of  course  surprised  at  this,  from  a  stranger,  but 
'  explained  the  mistake  and  walked  on,  noticing  that  he  was 
looked  at  rather  more  closely  by  the  passers,  than  he 
thought  the  circumstances  would  warrant;  so  that  he  ex- 
amined his  clothes  again,  to  see  if  there  was  any  thing 
strange  about  him.  However,  he  placed  his  name  on  the 
book  for  the  coach,  which,  running  but  three  times  a  week, 
luckily  started  on  that  morning.  While  he  was  entering 
his  name,  a  man  who  came  in  scrutinized  him  rather 
closely;  and  then,  perhaps  for  his  own  pleasure  or  infor- 
mation, read  over  the  names  on  the  coach  list,  particularly 
the  last  one:  "James  Tomlinson,  Stratford,  paid;"  when  a 
slight  sneer  curled  his  lip,  and  he  muttered  to  himself  — 
"  That  '11  do." 

Let  us  turn  to  Stratford,  w^here  the  lieutenant  was  ex- 
pected. Two  girls,  perhaps  of  seventeen  (it  is  difficult  to 
say  exactly),  were  arranging  themselves,  with  each  other's 
assistance,  before  a  small  glass  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  Mr. 
Tomlinson's  house.     (See  Plate  V.) 

"I  do  hope,"  said  his  sister,  "that  James  will  get  here 
before  our  pic-nic  of  Saturday." 

The  other  one,  Julia,  her  friend,  a  quiet  creature,  assented. 

"Now,  how  do  I  look?"  asked  Jane,  shaking  out  the 
folds  of  her  scanty  skirt. 

"Very  nicely,   indeed." 

"How  is  it  behind?"  she  asked,  turning   round. 

"  Very  good,"  Julia  answered,  arranging  deftly  the  few 
puckers  which  were  permitted. 

"And  so  do  you" — (in  some  way  referring  to  her  appear- 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  01 

ance,  no  doubt) — "that  little  cape  is  sweet.  Before  you 
go,  you  must  give  me  the  pattern,"  said  Jane,  turning  again 
to  the  glass  to  apply  to  her  fine,  black  hair  some  delicate, 
unctuous  substance,  which  the  little  beast,  familiarly  called 
the  goose,  yields  in  such  abundance. 

It  must  be  admitted  that,  although  this  was  prior  to  the 
invention  of  pearl  powder,  that  wonderful  thing  which 
covers  more  than  the  mantle  of  charity,  she  did  extremely 
well.  There  was  a  freshness  about  her  which,  if  not  ele- 
gant, was  at  least  cheerful. 

"  I  do  wish  this  nasty  war  was  ended,"  she  continued, 
"  for  I  am  tired  to  death  of  these  domestic  things.  But 
hark!  there's  the  horn  —  perhaps  James  has  come!"  and 
she  ran  down  stairs,  taking  Julia  with  her,  somewhat  en- 
dangering the   pretty  cape  which  she  had  admired. 

Sure  enough,  James  had  come;  for  it  took  some  twenty 
hours  to  get  over  the  roads,  with  the  delays  which  then 
existed.  But  he  had  arrived,  and  the  whole  household 
were  happy  in  seeing  him  —  the  brown,  good  tempered 
young  man.  Even  the  slight  blush,  which  stole  over  Julia's 
pale  face,  was  as  warm  as  sunshine,  and  her  eyes  were  of 
a  deeper  blue,  as  James  quietly  pressed  her  hand. 

Deacon  Hart  read  the  newspaper,  which  came  to  him 
once  a  week,  faithfully,  from  beginning  to  end.  One  glass 
of  his  specs  was  broken  in  two,  and  often  dropped  out, 
causing  him  some  delay;  but  with  a  patience,  drawn,  be- 
yond all  question,  from  his  religion,  which  was  based  upon 
depravity,  total   and  entire,  he  replaced   it  and  read   on  — 

"  It  is  said  that  the  gallant  young  Frankfort,  who  so 
boldly  and  nobly  came  out  from  the  ranks  of  our  enemies, 
has,  under  an  assumed  name,  gone  to  rusticate  ( he  halted 
a  little  upon  that  word),  to  rusticate  at  or  near  Stratford, 
for  a  time ;  waiting,  without  doubt,  for  some  active  service." 


82  GOTTA*;  KS     AND 

"Zounds!"  said  tln^  dcafon,  who  was  deaf,  and  could 
not  hear  himself  swear,   "what  is  he  coming  here  for?" 

However,  he  was  a  prudent  man.  lie  put  the  paper  away, 
—  said  nothing  to  his  wife  —  and  resolved  to  keep  a  look- 
out. Just  then  the  glass  of  his  specs  dropped  out ;  but  it 
was  of  no  consequence. 

The  Saturday  for  the  pic-nic  came ;  and  w  ith  it  a  good 
number  of  the  young  folks  of  the  village  —  with  their  best 
looks,  their  best  clothes,  and  their  best  provisions.  It  was 
a  good  while  since  James  Tomlinson  had  seen  them,  or  had 
felt  so  free,  and  exuberant,  as  when  with  the  blue -eyed 
Julia.  He  walked  for  half  a  mile  to  the  little  sail  boat,  in 
which  they  were  to  go  to  a  pleasant  wooded  point.  James, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  took  command  of  the  boat,  and  with 
a  light  wind  they  launched  forth  —  not  upon  the  "great 
deep" — but  upon  the  great  shallow.  There  was  no  fear 
from  tempests,  or  enemies;  for  that  part  of  the  coast  had 
been  unmolested,  and  so  well  in  shore  they  were  quite  safe. 

The  little  coquetries,  such  as  they  were,  were  genuine, 
good  of  their  kind ;  and  so  were  the  awkward  gallantries, 
and  the  rather  rough  jokes.  The  half-witted  son  of  deacon 
Hart  was  invaluai)lc.  He  did  not  care  for  being  laughed 
at;  and  "Andy,"  as  he  was  called,  was  always  doing 
"  something"  with  a  restlessness  and  readiness  which  pro- 
voked laughter.  But  wit,  of  any  sort,  will  not  stretch  a 
sail,  and  the  wind  seemed,  indeed,  to  decline  with  it  —  so 
that  although  they  proceeded,  it  was  but  slowly.  Andy 
proposed  that  they  should  sing.  He  had  a  good  voice,  and 
pulling  out  his  hymn  book,  he  began  —  the  rest  readily 
joining.  James  could  not  but  smile  at  this  "  sport  of  the 
sea,"  and  their  songs  reminded  him  of  the  Irish  Christmas 
hymn,  which   begins. 


C  O  1'  T  A  G  E     L  I  F  E  .  (33 

'T  was  on  a  Christmas  morning, 
Jerusalem  a-bourning, 
The  Holy-land  adorning, 

All  on  the  Baltic  say! 

They  had  finished  one  or  two,  and  were  striking  up  the 
tune  of  "  Wells  "  : 

PSALM     84,    12. 

"Why  dost  withdi-aw  Thy  hand  aback. 
And  hide  it  in  thy  lappe? 
0  pluck  it  out  and  be  not  slack 
To  give  thy  foes  a  rappe." 

At  this  moment  they  rounded  a  wooded  point,  and  came 
upon  an  open,  armed  boat.  The  girls  slightly  screamed,  and 
huddled,  and  clung  together  —  while  as  they  approached, 
with  one  or  two  muskets  leveled,  Andy  cried  out  "  Do  n't 
shoot,  we're  all  Stratford  souls!"  James  steered  directly 
on  his  way,  while  the  boat  came  up  to  them  and  a  person 
jumped  on  board,  asking — "  If  his  name  was  James  Tom- 
linson  ?  "  James  said  he  would  answer,  if  there  were  any- 
good  reason  for  it. 

The  man,  who  was  the  same  that  had  entered  the  stage 
office   after  him,   said  — 

"It  is  of  no  use — I  know  who  you  are  —  and  you  must 
go  with  me." 

Seeing  no  help  for  it,  he  quietly  stepped  into  their  boat, 
which  struck  out  across  the  sound  —  while  the  dilapidated 
pic-nic  party  got  back  as  they  could :  Jane  in  hysterics, 
and  Julia  in  tearless  dread. 

Andy  was  bouncing  about  in  great  wrath,  shouting  after 
the  "  darn'd  sneakin'   critters."    daring    them    to  come    back. 


64  COTTAGKS     AND 

and  so  on.  Indeed,  it  was  necessary  to  hold  him  in  the 
boat,  until  a  pistol  shot,  lired  over  them,  quite  wilted  his 
military  stitlness.  Stratford  was  in  a  buz— people  were 
flying  almost  like  bees,  without  a  queen  —  boats  went  in 
pursuit,  without  success. 

The  deacon  at  last  got  hold  of  the  trouble,  although 
Andy's  accounts  were  none  of  the  clearest.  "  Devils  !  "  he 
said,   "  British  devils  !  " 

'"Sht!  'sht !  Andy,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  It  's  as  true  as  that  I  stand  here,  sir.  They  come 
aboard  us,  hoofs,  horns,  and  all ;  stinking  of  brimstone,  too, 
and  carried  him  off.  It  's  no  use  to  look  for  him,  for  by 
this  time  he  's   roasted  to  a  cinder." 

It  is  clear  that  the  half-witted  Andy  had  those  lucid  ideas 
of  hell  and  damnation,  which  the  fumes  of  sulphur  generate 
in  so  many  of  his  quality  of  brains. 

But  the  deacon's  thoughts  recurred  to  the  paper,  in 
which  he  had  read  of  Frankfort's  projected  visit  to  Stratford ; 
possibly  that  had  some  connection  with  the  matter,  and  he 
took  it  to  Mr.  Tomlinson,  who  was  sick  with  anxiety.  He 
caught  the  idea,  that  his  son  had  been  mistaken  for  Frank- 
fort—  and  started  at  once  for  New  York. 

But  the  young  Tomlinson  was  carried  on  board  ship,  and 
heavily  ironed.  No  one  heeded  his  explanations,  and  for 
a  time  he  writhed  under  the  injustice  and  confinement 
which,  when  he  found  the  ship  was  making  sail  for  the  old 
world,  he  knew  would  not  be  short.  At  Portsmouth  he 
was  put  on  board  a  prisoner-ship,  and  left  to  wait  his  trial 
as  a  deserter. 

From  the  entire  want  of  belief  in  his  story,  he  was 
strongly  impressed  with  the  idea  that  that  would  be  fatal  to 
him.  This  anxiety,  and  the  close  continement,  were  making 
inroads    upon    his    health    and    spirits.       With    one    of    his 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  (i5 

guards,  the  corporal,  he  had  made  some  acquaintance,  and, 
through  his  representations,  had  at  last  been  permitted  to 
walk  the  deck,  on  the  afternoons,  with  little  or  no  fetters. 
At  times,  he  felt  ready  for  any  desperate  attempt,  and  was 
constantly  casting  about  for  some  possible  means  of  escape. 
None  suggested  themselves,  except  it  might  be  through  this 
corporal,  and  to  him  he  applied  himself. 

His  father  found  that  Frankfort  was  still  in  New  York; 
and,  having  been  furnished  with  necessary  proofs  and  papers 
for  the  liberation  of  his  son,  had  started  for  England,  —  en- 
tirely uncertain  as  to  where  he  should  find  him.  But  while 
he  could  act  and  hope,  he  could  live. 

Through  the  corporal,  James  learned  that  the  commission 
for  his  trial  was  shortly  expected.  He  would  in  no  case 
wait  for  this;  and  on  that  same  evening,  as  he  was  being 
conducted  to  his  quarters,  he  made  a  violent  rush  past  the 
guard,  who  was  following  him;  startling  him  so  that  he 
got  beyond  his  reach.  The  corporal  fired  oflT  his  musket; 
not  with  any  evil  intention,  it  is  believed.  This  increased 
the  confusion,  while,  as  quick  as  thought,  James  plunged 
from  the  side  of  the  ship. 

Boats  were  quickly  manned,  and  the  harbor  searched, 
without  success.  It  was,  therefore,  believed  that  he  had 
suffered  the  penalty  of  his  own  temerity  —  was  drowned, 
after  being  wounded,  by  the  shot  of  the  corporal ;  who 
gave  that  impression,  to  relieve  himself  from  all  suspicion. 

That  very  day,  the  little  brig,  in  which  his  father  had 
sailed,  anchored  in  the  road.  Having  ascertained,  in  Lon- 
don, where  his  son  was  imprisoned,  he  had  posted  down 
but  an  hour  or  two  behind  the  court  martial,  and  with  the 
necessary  proofs  came  on  board  the  prison-ship,  where  he 
learned  this  sad  result. 

But    he   was   not  drowned ;    for,  in   such  a  story  as    this, 
9 


CH  c  n  T  T  A  r;  F,  s    and 

it  would  not  be  posisiblf.  lie  had  caught,  as  he  rose, 
swept  past  the  ship  by  the  tide,  to  one  of  the  block  hooks 
which  hung  from  the  davits  into  the  water.  With  his  nose 
only  exposed,  he  had  waited  until  the  search  was  over,  it 
having  been  made  rather  carelessly  so  near  the  ship.  One 
of  the  returning  boats  had  touched  his  head  with  an  oar, 
but  without  exciting  any  search,  particularly  as  it  was  so 
near  night. 

Seeing  what  he  thought  was  a  fishing  boat  sailing  out  of 
the  harbor,  he  swam  toward  her.  The  man  at  the  tiller, 
seeing  something  in  the  water,  cried  out  to  his  companion, 
"  Bring  the  axe  ! " 

"Make  no  noise  said  James,'  weak  with  cold  and  fatigue; 
"but  come  here,  and  give  me  a  lift." 

This  was  soon  done,  and  he  was  once  more  safe  from 
drowning.  The  sentinel  on  the  ship,  hearing  the  talk,  —  the 
night  being  still  and  the  breeze  light,  —  although  the  boat 
was  now  at  some  considerable  distance,  hailed  her. 

"  Make  no  answer,"  said  James,  "  as  you  hope  for  salva- 
tion. It  is  best  to  be  frank  with  you;  and  I  will  tell  you 
more  as  soon  as  I  get  voice  enough." 

Men  in  cool,  blood  have  an  innate  repugnance  to  giving  up 
their  fellow-men  to  the  punishment  of  death,  even  when 
they  believe  them  criminal;  —  much  stronger  in  a  case  like 
this,  when  the  story  was  so  plain,  and  the  earnestness  of 
the  man  so  impressive.  These  fishermen  believed  what  the 
liveried  official  could  not  listen  to,  and  gave  to  James  what 
help  they  could,  —  even  put  him  on  bonrd  ;i  French  ship, 
which  was  on  her  way  to  America. 

His  father  staid  in  England  only  long  enough  to  satisfy 
himself  that  his  son  was  dead.  Then  he  took  his  way  to 
Stratford,  a  broken  down  man.  lie  reached  home  a  few 
weeks    after    liis    son    had    been    \Ae|ronied     In     his    motlier. 


C  0  T  T  A  G  E     L  1  F  E .  H7 

sister,  and  friends, — Julia  among;  them, —  almost  as  one 
risen  from  the  dead.  This  unexpected  appearance  startled 
his  father  once  more  into  life  and  action ;  but  he  never 
recovered  his  usual  tone;  and  in  two  years  passed  from 
among  them,  to  a  world  where,  since  Milton's  time,  we 
may  hope  there  has  been  no  war! 

"Is  that  all?"    asked  Grace. 

"  Yes  —  " 

"  But  did  Tomlinson  marry  the  blue-eyed  —  something- 
else —  Julia?" 

"  As  to  that  matter,  I  am  obliged  to  refer  you   to  John." 


59  noTTAt;F:s   and 

I>  E  S  G  R  T  P  T  1  ()  N     ()  F     V  L  A  T  E     \' 

SCALE SIXTEEN     FEET     TO    ONE     INCH. 

All  [ho  varieties  oi'  Italian  bouse  are  appropriate  lor 
a  level,  or  undulating,  country.  This  specimen  is  very 
simple,  and  may  be  built  of  cheap  stone,  or  brick, 
stuccoed.  The  coloring  for  the  stucco  will  last  longer, 
if  a p} (lied  to  the  mass  before  plastering.  The  verge 
board  should  be  cut  fi'om  two  inch  plank,  one  foot  wide. 
The  teeth  and  spaces  are  each  twelve  inches  wide. 
The  curtain  over  the  broad  window  may  be  made  to 
roll  up,  to  protect   it   from  winds. 

As  many  persons  would  not  like  the  octaf/onal  room, 
it  will  be  very  easy  to  reaiTange  that  portion.  It  will 
be  less  expensive  if  built  square. 

Back  of  the  dining  room,  a  shding  closet,  or  "  dumb 
waiter,"  may  be  made  to  communicate  with  the  kitchen, 
if  in  the  basement.  ^Vlien  the  kitchen  is  on  the  same 
tloor  with  the  rest  of  the  house,  it  is  much  neater  to 
build  it  separate  from  the   house,  with  a  passage. 

The  hall  may  be  made  to  run  through  the  house.  A 
back  stairway  may  then  be  made,  still  leaving  ample  room 
for  closets. 

The  piazza  and  parlor  placed  in  the  rear  of  the  house, 
are  supposed,  in  this  case,  to  command  a  view. 

Estimate,  $2,000  to  $3,000,  according  to  the  style  in 
which  it  is  built. 


■#'•■  * 
^;*^ 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  OV) 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

To  return  to  those  country  people,  who  were  making 
the  usual  nervous  efforts  to  exist. 

Uncle  Tom's  "cool  head"  had,  by  degrees,  become  ex- 
cited, as  to  the  prospects  for  business  men  and  matters. 
His  thoughts  naturally  recurred  to  his  old  haunts ;  and 
't  was  not  many  days  after  Mr.  Derwent's  return  from  the 
citj-  that  he  declared,  at  the  breakfast  table,  his  intention 
to  visit  it. 

"Nothing  ^v^ong,  I  hope?"  said  Grace,  with  an  inquiring 
tone. 

"I  hope  not;"  he  said.  "But  it's  squally  weather. — 
Rogers  has  died  suddenly,  under  rather  suspicious  circum- 
stances ;  it  is  rumored  that  he  's  bankrupt.  I  do  n't  know 
what  may  be  the  end;  but  the  whole  town  seems  to  have 
been  running  a  race  to  the  devil;  who,  I  suspect,  is  nearer 
than  they  think  for.     I  '11   go  down  and  see  for  myself" 

Now,  when  Mr.  Derwent  returned,  although  he  had  seen 
Uncle  Tom,  and  had  talked  further  upon  his  political 
prospects, —  and  upon  the  matrimonial  project  before  men- 
tioned,—  he  said  not  a  word  as  to  the  suspicion,  which  had 
almost  reached  certainty,  that  Wainwright  was  trying  his 
hand  at  getting  rich.  Why  should  he  meddle  in  other 
people's  affairs  ?  Let  every  man  take  care  of  his  own 
business !  Save  yourself,  who  can,  and  the  devil  take  the 
hindmost,    was    the    proverb    of   the    wise    man,   which    he 


70  COTT  A(J  E  S     AN  0 

took  to  his  hturl.     This  was  lliu  rLlluw-lccUng  in   his  bosom. 
Not  the  only  one  in  which  he  feels! 

"  While  you  are  gone,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  1  "II  take  the 
children,  and  make  a  short  circuit  among  our  neighbors ; 
it  may  be  both  pleasant  and   profitable  — "' 

"To  Ned!"   struck  in  Grace;    "and  pleasant  to  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Ned,  "  suppose  we  go  and  take  a  look  at 
the   horses.      But  when  shall   we  start?" 

"  I  am  going  this  morning,"  said  Uncle  Tom. 

"  Then  we  will  start  to-morrow  morning,"  I'ncle  John 
said. 

"  I  like   my  horse,"  Grace   said    to    Ned,  as   they    walked 
toward  the  stable.      "  On  a  little  trip  of  this  kind,   I  should 
get  along  but  poorly  with  Uncle  Tom's  old  hack,  which  for, 
so   long   he  made  me  ride — for  safety!      I  despise  safety." 

"  It  's  because  you  hav^  never  been  hurt.  But  i  am 
trying  to  make  your  horse  lift  his  right  foot  first,  when  he 
canters;    it   does  n't  throw  a  woman   about  so  much." 

"  How  do  you  do  it?" 

"  I  am  trying,  by  riding  him  in  a  small  ring.  He  occa- 
sionally starts  into  it;  but  it  seems  natural  for  him,  and 
all   horses,  to   start  with    the    left  foot." 

"  Here  's  old  Jack,"  said  Grace,  patting  the  great,  black 
head  which  was  thrust  into  her  hand.  "  He  '11  be  lonesome 
when  we  all  go  away.  Jack!  we  are  going  away,  to 
leave  you."  Jack  lifted  his  ears.  "  You  '11  have  to  be 
shut  up  in  the  morning,  1  think — eh?  old  fellow,  how 
will  you  like  that?"  He  put  his  paws  up  on  her  shoulders, 
and  wagged  his  bushy  tail,  as  if  to  say,  "  Do  n't  do  that, 
nice,  good  Gracie." 

While  they  were  busy  in  the  very  unladylike  occupa- 
tions of  brushing  up  and  mending  saddles  and  bridles, 
Jim  Haskill  put  his  head  in. 


C  O  T  T  A  G  E     1. 1  I<"  E .  71 

"What's  goin'  on  ^  Governor,  off  for  tlm  city?  and 
where    are    the    rest    of  you    bound?"' 

"  We  are  going  to  take  a  ride.  But  how  did  you  know 
Uncle    Tom    was    for   the    town?" 

"He's    got    on    his    best  clothes! — " 

"  A  man  may  wear  them,  and  stay  at  home,"  said  Grace. 

"Not  in  the  country;  unless  he's  goin'  to  church,  —  or 
courtin', —  or  lectioneerin',"'  said  Jim,  with  a  slight  wink 
at   Ned. 

"  But  how  do  you  know  he  is  not  going  about  one  of 
these?     He  "s    old    enough,"    said    Ned. 

"Yes,  and  ugly  enough; — but  I  know.  I've  had  my 
eye  on  him;  —  he's  seen  no  widow;  —  he's  not  yet  got 
into  politics ;  —  and  if  to-day  is  Sunday,  then  Warden  Scran 
is    breaking   it    all    to    smash." 

"  Now  Jim,"  said  Ned,  "  you  must  be  a  father  to  Grace 
while   Uncle  Tom 's    away." 

"  That  1  can  do,  if  she  will  come  up  and  stay  with 
Bessy    and    I."" 

"  1  do  n't  know  about  that,"  Ned  replied,  looking  rather 
wickedly  at  Grace.  "  It  would  not  be  convenient  for  JNIr. 
Derwent's   horses   to   climb   over   your   rocks." 

Grace  seemed  a  little  puzzled;  but  said,  "  You  forget, 
Ned,  that  1  have  a  horse  of  my  own,  and  can  go  and  see 
him." 

"  And  then,"  Ned  continued,  "  I  am  afraid  you  do  n't 
sing  very  well,  Jim.  Ai-e  you  familiar  with  botany,  rose 
buds,    and    the    like?" 

"Oh,  the  devil! — sing?  I  can  sing."  vVnd  he  struck 
up  the  "  Hunters  of  Kentucky."  "  What  do  you  think  of 
that?  But  you  must  go  to  the  camp-ground,  if  you  want 
to  hear  singin' :    The  Land  of  Canaan  goes  well.     But  you 


72  COTTAGES     AND 

said  you  were  goinj^  to  ride;  —  why  not  go  there?  it  will 
begin   next   week.     The   last   nights    are   the   best." 

"  Perhaps  we  will.  But  where  is  it  to  be  ?  You  would 
like   it,  Grace.     Will  Derwent  be    there,  Jim?" 

"  Everybody  goes.  It  will  be  in  Dillon's  Plains.  1  lay 
in  my  stock  lor  the   season  there  ! " 


C  O  T  T  A  G  E     L  I  F  E .  73 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

We  will  follow  Uncle  Torn  to  the  city,  which  will  neces- 
sarily be  rather  stupid  to  us,  as  it  was  to  him.  He  had 
fallen  into  lazy  ways,  during  his  short  country  life,  but  he 
managed  to  get  through  his  breakfast  soon  after  the  rest, 
who  evidently  did  not  enjoy  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  through 
their  anxiety  to  possess  them.  When  he  started  out,  after 
breakfast,  to  make  some  few  business  calls,  he  walked 
leisurely,  in  a  wealthy  country  manner;  but  it  did  not  con- 
tinue long,  for  he  was  swept  on  with  the  living  tide,  walk- 
ing with  inconceivable  rapidity,  so  that  lamp-posts  and  men 
became  confused  together.  He  was  unconscious  that  he 
was  exciting  himself  to  keep  in  advance  of  some  person, 
whom  he  had  heard  walking  rapidly  behind  him,  until  he 
heard  his  name  spoken. 

It  proved  to  be  Wainwright,  who,  quite  red  in  the  face, 
said,  "I  have  been  trying  to  overtake  you;  for  I  thought 
very  likely  you  were  going  to  my  office." 

"So  I  was,"  replied  Uncle  Tom;  and  they  walked  on 
together,  soon  at  high  speed  again,  each  trying  to  keep  up 
with  the  other,  until  Wainwright,  who  was  a  small  man, 
remonstrated. 

"  Why,"  said  Uncle  Tom,  "  I  was  trying  to  keep  up  with 
you?" 

"  And  I  with  you !  "  he  answered.  "  But  I  was  going  to 
say,  that  I  have  an  engagement  for  an  hour  this  morning, 
10 


74  COTTA(iP:s     AND 

and  will  ask  you  to  coinr-  in  .'ificrward,  wlien  we  can  talk 
over  your  ailairs.' 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Uncle  Tom.  '"it  will  suit  mo  as 
well." 

Wainwright  turned  down  a  street,  which  perhaps  short- 
ened his  distance,  leaving  Uncle  Tom  to  continue  his  way. 
He  took  some  .securities  from  his  sale,  and  stepped  quickly 
to  one  of  his  neighboring  speculators,  asking  to  deposit 
them  for  an  hour  or  so.  in  place  of  other.s  in  his  hands. 
There  could  be  no  objection  to  this. 

Now  these  securities  (stocks)  were  in  the  name  of  Wain- 
wright,  though  they  really  belonged  to  Uncle  Tom.  But 
Wainwright  was  such  an  upright  man,  that  Uncle  Tom 
would  not  have  hesitated  to  place  all  his  property  in  his 
hands;  and  in  truth,  a  good  part  of  it  was  directly  or  in- 
directly under  his  control. 

In  looking  over  matters  with  him,  Uncle  Tom  mentioned 
his  fears,  and  anticipations  of  trouble.  Wainwright  said  in 
reply  —  "That  many  people  feared  a  crash,  and  all  hoped 
to  weather  the  storm.  A  large  number  were  crowding  sail, 
so  as  to  reach  a  harbor  before  it  should  burst.  Some  of 
these  stocks  which  have  been  paying  a  high  interest,"  he 
suggested,  "it  might  be  safe  to  sell,  and  reinvest  in  others, 
of  which  there  can  be  no  doubt." 

As  this  agreed  with  Uncle  Tom's  opinion,  he  gave  direc- 
tion for  the  preparation  of  a  power  of  attorney — "and 
that  there  may  be  no  trouble  about  it,"  he  said,  "  perhaps 
it  had  better  be  full.  I  may  want  something  else  done, 
and  it   will    save   me    trouble." 

It  is  sometimes  dangerous  to  save  trouble,  and  a  doubt 
of  the  propriety  of  this  step  crossed  Uncle  Tom's  mind. 
"  But    with   Wainwright  ?  " 

As    Uncle    Tom    stepped     out    of  the    office,    he    met    one 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  75 

of  his  old  business  friends — who  stopped  to  say  the  good 
mornings  —  "Why,  how  are  you?"  said  he,  "have  you 
been   out   of  town  ?  " 

"Some  four  months,"  said  Uncle  Tom,  smiling  —  "and 
you  thought   it   was  but   yesterday  ? " 

"Oh  —  yes  —  and  how  do  you  find  it  up  there?  rather 
dull  —  eh  ?     Good   morning." 

Saying  this,  he  jerked  himself  away  as  though  he  were 
a  tin  man ;  no  doubt  wishing,  in  those  hot  August  days, 
that  when  he  did  melt,  it  might  be  into  that  rich  metal, 
modestly  called  tin. 

"  Now  I  'm  safe,"  said  Wainwright  to  himself;  "  with 
that,   I   can   get  through." 

Get  through  ?  through  what  ?  perhaps  he  is  into  the 
dismal   swamp,  deep  —  deeper — perhaps  up  to   his   ears? 

Having  finished  his  business,  Uncle  Tom  hastened  to 
quit  the  hot,  noisy,  headlong,  heartless  town.  He  found 
himself  alone  —  more  alone  than  when  he  was  among 
the  cows — they  at  least  stood  still  and  chewed  their  cuds: 
these  ran  over  him,  and  never  turned  to  see  if  he  got 
up.  When  he  was  full  of  his  business,  it  is  believed  that 
he  did  the  same  thing.  He  was,  therefore,  absent  from 
home  four  days,  instead  of  two  weeks,  as  he  had  anti- 
cipated. 


70  COTTAGES     AND 


cn.APTEn   XV. 

Wiiii.K  the  little  party — Grace,  Uncle  John,  and  Ned  — 
ride  out  under  the  level  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  we  will 
take  a  look  into  Jim  HaskilTs  hut,  —  for  it  could  hardly  be 
called  cottage. 

He  was  busy  with  a  small  lire,  over  which  he  toasted, 
on  a  stick,  slices  of  pork,  which  lay  on  a  board  by  his 
side,  flanked  with  a  number  of  those  rolls  of  Indian  meal 
called  "dodgers,"  and  a  bottle,  which  contained  some 
beverage   stronger   than   water. 

"  It  is  time  he  was  here,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  if  the 
wind  rises,  the  birds  will  not  lie.  Bessy,  come  and  get 
some   breakfast?' 

"No  —  no,  Jim,"  she  said,  as  she  leaned  out  of  the  small 
window,  and  busied  herself  with  the  morning-glorys. — 
"There — I  saw  you  — "  she  whispered,  singing  in  a  low 
voice  — 

"  Come,  on  the  sail  of  the  thistle  down ; 
Come,  in  the  light  of  the  golden  sun; 
Bring  me  the  scent  of  th'e  queen  bee's  crown, — 
The  tint  of  the  cloud  when  the  day  is  done. 
Trip— Trip  — Trip!" 

Jim  paid  no  attention  to  her,  but  whistled  up  his  dogs, 
took  his  gun,  and  went  out  among  the  rough  places  of  the 
mountains. 

She  continued:  —  "Come  —  come  to  me.  Here,  Trip;  — 
here  beauty!    There,  —  you   shake  the  dew  from  the  cups? 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  77 

No  —  you  can't  get  in  there;  —  there,  now,  1  have  you. 
Ah,  you  rogue  !  —  so,  where  have  you  been,  Trip  ?  Your 
wings  are  sticky." 

"Ah,  —  down  among  the  clover  fields.  Yes?  Give  me  a 
kiss  then.  You  were  in  the  honeysuckles,  too,  this  morning. 
I  see  the  yellow  on  your  nose,"  she  said,  holding  her  finger 
up,  as   though  something  was  standing   on  it.  — 

"You  bave  stolen  your  vest 
From  the  hang  bird's  nest, — 
Tbe  white  from  the  lily's  breast. 
I  see  you  blush,  with  tbe  rose-bud's  flush: 
You  smeU  of  tbe  mignonette. 
Ah,  Trip !    they  '11  have  you  yet.  — 
Your  whistle,  too, 
'S  from  tbe  spring  bird-blue. 
I  hear  it  with  grief: 
Oh,  Trip,  you  thief!" 

She  laid  her   head  toward   him,   as   if  listening :  — 
"That's   pretty,"  she   said,  trying   to  imitate   the  sounds. 
"  But,  are  you  afraid.  Trip  ?       Do  n't  jump  about  — 
"Oh  —  you   don't   think   I   whistle   well?    ha!    ha!  — 

"Ah,  Trip,  I  can  whistle  as  well  as  you, — 
The  little  folks  know  it ;     they  know  it 's  true : 
Ah,  Trip,  you're  a  rogue,  —  I  say  it  with  grief, — 
You  're  smoking  the  stem  of  the  love-apple  leaf  — 

"Oh,  no,  Trip,  1  '11  not  say  it — be  quiet.  Did  you  hear 
Jim's  gun!  but  what  is  it  then?"  she  asked,  turning  her 
head  toward  young  Derwent,  who  had  walked  in  without  her 
observing  it,  prepared  for  a  day's  shooting.  He  had  listened 
for  an  instant  to  Bessy's  singing  and  talking,  saying  to 
himself,  "  she  's  a   natural ;"    for  she  had  that  looseness  of 


78  C  O  T  T  A  C;  E  S     A  N  D 

the  mouth,  and  wildness  ol'  eye,  at  times,  which  betrayed 
it;  and  otherwise  was  peculiar  in  her  appearance,  and  very 
pretty. 

"Where's  Jim?"    he    asked,  advancing  to   her  side. 

"  Gone ; "  she  rcphed,  pointing  with  her  free  hand  out 
the   window,   near   which   she   stood. 

"But  who  w^ere  you  talking  to?  "  he  asked,  putting  his 
hand    upon    her   waist. 

"Why  —  why.  Trip;"  she  replied,  looking  with  a  little 
wonder  into  his  eyes.  "Don't  you  see  him  —  my  Uttle 
one?  — 

"Oil,  Trip's  the  child  witli  the  laughing  eyes, 
Who  tickles  the  cow's-tits  —  with  the  daisies  lies." 

"  But  I  do  'nt  see  him,"  said  Derwent. 

"There  he  is!"   she  said,  raising  her  hand.     "See  him?" 

"  I  see  nothing." 

"There — "  said  Bessy,  putting  her  finger  on  to  her 
thumb.  "See  the  wings  on  hia  feet!  Stand  still,  Trip. 
There,  you've  frightened  him  away;"  she  continued,  leaning 
out  of  the  window.  "See  him  there,  among  the  leaves? 
But  you  wouldn't  hurt  him,  —  you  wouldn't  hurt  me?" 
she  asked,  looking  up  in  iiis  face,  as  she  lay  upon  his  arm. 

"  Not  if  you  '11  give  me  a  kiss." 

"  There 's  Jim,"  she  said,  without  changing  her  place. 
"Here,  Trip!"  she  called,  as  Derwent  hastily  turned  to- 
ward him  ;  excusing  himself  for  being  rather  late,  and  so 
on,  —  proposing,  now,  that  they  should  be  off — 

"Yes,"  said  Jim.  with  a  smile;  "it's  time:  you  and 
Bessie   were  —  " 

"Just  going  to  dance,"  said  Derwent,  hastily.  "Quite  a 
good  exercise;  —  she  don't  seem  to  have  been  very  well 
educated." 


C  O  T  T  A  G  E     L  I  F  E.  79 

"  Edicated  !      But  let 's   see  you  do  it." 

Derwent  made  an  attempt  at  a  waltz,  at  which  Jim 
laughed  out. 

"  Why,  I  can  do  that  better  myself.  Here,  try  me,"  he 
said,  putting  his  arm  around  his  waist.  They  made  a  few 
turns,  when  he  suddenly  whirled  Derwent  out  the  door, — 
so  that  he  went  spinning  down,  among  the  rocks  and 
brambles,  in  some  danger  of  life  and  limb.  He  gathered 
himself  up,  in  a  bewildered  state,  uncertain  whether  to 
fight  or  fly. 

"Come  here,"  said  Jim.  "Here's  your  gun;  let's  be 
off;  —  it's  high  time.  You  aint  hurt,  are  you?"  he  asked 
of  Derwent,  who  came  sulkily  toward  him. 

"It's  no  fault  of  yours;  —  it's  no  way  to  treat  a  gentle- 
man." He  wished  to  maintain  his  dignity;  but  was  afraid, 
and  doubtful. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Jim ;  "  but  you  are  so  darnation  slip- 
pery. I  expect  I  can  teach  Bessy.  Come,  will  you  go 
on   after   the   blind-snipe,  and   let  her   be  ? " 


tiO  COTTAGES     AND 


CIIAl'TKU    XVI. 

About  a  mile  from  the  house,  the  riding  party  stopped  to 
water  their  horses  in  the  trough,  which  some  pubUc  spirit 
had  provided,  when  Grace  saw  her  dog  crawhng  out  iVom 
behind   it. 

"As    1    live!"  she  exclaimed,  "here's   Jack." 

"Ah,  you  rascal,"  said  Ned,  "here's  where  you  are.  I 
could  n't  find  you  this  morning.  I  believe,  Grace,  that  the 
fellow  knew  what   we  said   yesterday." 

In  truth,  he  seemed  to  understand  the  conversation  now, 
for  he  stood  with  his  head  down,  occasionally  raising  his 
eyes   to    Grace,   one   foot  a   little    advanced. 

"  He    looks    meek  enough." 

"  Come  here,  Jack,"  said  she,  holding  out  her  hand  to 
him  —  "I'll  forgive  you  —  I  believe  you  are  my  best  friend, 
after  all." 

"  Except  one,"  said  Ned,  "  though  absent  now  to  mem'ry 
dear." 

"  Ned,  I  fear  you  are  sophisticated  —  that  you  are  get- 
ting worldly  and  miserable." 

While  the  horses  were  drinking.  Jack  had  reached  his 
head  up  to  her  hand,  and  was  making  friends  again, 
rapidly.  When  they  started,  he  dashed  on,  waking  the 
echoes  with    his  glad  bark. 

"'JSht!  'sht!"  called  Grace,  uhislling  ium  in.  "You 
must   behave   yourself,  well." 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  81 

He  quietly  came  in  behind  them,  and  was  as  meek  as 
if  he   were  going  to  church  with  the  minister. 

Ned  had  been,  through  the  summer,  getting  more  and 
more  uneasy  and  dissatisfied  with  himself;  and  he  deter- 
mined, as  they  rode  forward,  to  bring  the  matter  before 
Uncle  John,  in  whose  judgment  he  had  some  confidence, 
though  he  was  very  well  aware  of  the  small  value  which 
men  of  fifly  place  upon  the  plans  of  "  young  men."  "  I 
have  been  through  all  that,"  is  the  usual,  satisfactory  re- 
ply. But  Uncle  John  did  not  say  so,  when  Ned  asked 
him  — 

"  What  he  should  do,  if  he  were  in  his  case,  not  know- 
ing what  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  should  do   what   I   wished   to   do,    if  I   could." 

"  Marry  some  rich  girl,  Ned ;  that  settles  a  man,"  said 
Grace,  who   had  but   little  faith  in  Ned's   industrious  fever. 

"And  call  it  husbandry?"  he  asked.  "But  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  like  to  do,  Uncle  John." 

"  Do  the  first  thing  that  you  can  lay  hands  on,  then. 
Byt  don't  you   do   enough?  —  j'ou   keep  busy." 

"  Yes,  but  it  comes  to  nothing,"  said  Ned. 

"What  don't?"  asked  Uncle  John. 

"  That 's  more  than  I  can  say,  and  is  what  I  wish  to 
know." 

"  Nobody  can  tell  you.  If  you  keep  on  working,  you  will 
find  out  for  yourself,  or  will  be  satisfied  that  one  thing  is 
as  good  as  another." 

"  But,"  said  Ned,  "  it  seems  to  me  that  I  ought  to  have 
some  object  —  some  end  —  which  I  may  finally  reach." 

"  A  mission,  perhaps  ?  "   suggested   Grace. 

"  How  are  you  going  to   get  it  ? "  asked  Uncle   John. 

"  That 's   the   question,"    Ned   replied. 

"  Now,"    said    Uncle    John,    "  listen    to    me.      There   are 
11 


32  r  ()  T  T  A  G  E  ?;     A  N  D 

certain  tilings  tliat  a  man  knows  —  knows  them  —  how,  or 
why,  perhaps,  he  cannot  tell.  There  are  some  that  I  know, 
—  I  shall  not  make  any  attempt  to  convince  you  of  their 
truth.  I  know  that  no  man  gets  any  end  or  deliniteness, 
except  by  his  work,  his  experience,  if  you  please.  The 
doing  of  one  thing  leads  on  to  the  doing  of  another. 
The  work  done  lies  behind  him — has  made  his  way  so 
much  the  more  clear.  Looking  never  removed  difficulties; 
they  are   a   sort  of  thing  which  can  't   be  "  frowned  down." 

"  I   believe  you  are   right,"    said  Ned. 

"  I  do  not  try  to  convince  you,"  continued  Uncle  .John, 
"  or  reason,  as  it  is  called.  If  you  can  't  receive,  then  you 
are  not  ready  for  it ;  and  all  the  argument  in  the  state 
legislature  won  't  help  you.  If  you  arc  good  for  any 
thing,  you   will   satisfy  yourself." 

"Yes  —  but,"  Ned  asked  again,  "don't  you  think  that 
it  is  essential  that  a  man  should  decide  upon  his  occupa- 
tion,   and  then    stick  to  it  ?  " 

"Not  the  least  —  unless  his  only  wi-sh  is  to  get  rich. 
Most  men  stultify  themselves  by  doing  that.  Take  hold^of 
the  thing  which  is  at  hand,  and  do  it ;  but  do  not,  there- 
fore, keep  repeating  this,  unless  there  is  all  Ihc  while  in- 
terest and  improvement.  A  man  should  go  on,  from  step 
to  step.  Consistency  is  a  jewel — but  it  is  too  often  in  a 
swine's  snout." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Ned,  "  that  your  practice  may 
lead  to  what  is  called   shilly-shally  habits  ? " 

"Mind,  Ned,  that  I  say  a  man  should  do  —  finish  —  the 
thing  in  hand.  If  he  undertakes  to  farm  for  a  year — let 
him  do  it.  If  that  does  not  suit  him,  I  say  decidedly  he 
should  leave  it  —  and  so  with  every  thing  else.  He  will 
soon  learn  what  he  can  do,  and  what  he  ought  to  do.'' 
"T    am    rejoiced."    said     Grace,    "that    we    women     have 


COTTAGELIFE.  83 

something  to  make  up  to  us  for  our  dependence  and 
physical   weakness." 

"Another  thing,"  suggested  Ned,  "is,  as  to  one's  occu- 
pation — " 

"It  is  the  man  who  elevates  the  occupation,"  said 
Uncle  John.  "  It  is  an  old  saying,  that  you  can  't  make 
a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear — and  if  you  are  a  sow's 
ear,  you   must   take    the   consequences." 

"But  if  you  are  a  silk  purse,  Ned,"  suggested  Grace, 
"what  then?     See,  there   stands  Jim's  hut — a  nice   place." 

"  And  there  's  Jim  himself,"  said  Ned.  "  He  's  taking  off 
his  hat — let's  answer  him." 

He  stood  on  the  point  of  a  rock,  far  out  of  hearing,  and 
as  he  waved  his  hat,  it  possibly  startled  a  large  hawk, 
who  sailed  past  him.  He  raised  his  gun  and  the  bird  fell 
into  the  road  just  before  them.  '  T  was  the  sound  of  the 
gun  which  Bessy  heard.  Ned  dismounted,  and  pulled  the 
strong  wing-feather  for  Grace,  saying  as  he  handed  it  to 
her — "  So  let  all  your  enemies  perish  !  " 


84  COTTAGES    AND 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

I  DO  not  propose  to  detail  all  their  windings  and  wan- 
derings. Entirely  at  their  ease,  they  were  at  liberty  to 
chootse  their  own  paths,  whether  they  led  over  hills,  or 
through  valleys.  There  was  such  an  entire  giving  up  of 
care  and  responsibility,  that  they  were  open  to  all  in- 
fluences. Sometimes,  when  belated,  they  were  compelled 
to  look  ibr  shelter  at  the  house  which  first  oflered,  and 
they  were  not  often  refused. 

"  Such  as  they  have,  we  get,"  Ned  would  say ;  "  but  it 
it  is  often  more  blessed  to  give  than  receive."  But,  com- 
monly, they  were  received  by  some  friend,  to  whom  Uncle 
John    and   his   companions  always   seemed   welcome. 

The  country  was  not  overstocked  with  religious,  selfish 
or  entertaining,  men  and  women.  Our  party,  if  to  either, 
belonged   to  the  last  class,  and  were,  therefore,  acceptable. 

At  the  close  of  the  second  day,  they  drew  near  the  home 
of  Mrs.  Marshall,  who.  Uncle  John  told  them,  was  a  widow, 
a  methodist,  and  a  neat  woman.  Though  nothing  remark- 
able, let  us  take  a  look  at  her.  Having  been  left  with  a 
.small  property,  she  had  lived  many  years  with  her  son 
here  ( see  Plate  VI ).  Her  husband  had  been  half-farmer, 
half-doctor,  —  a  hard  man,  cold  and  suspicious.  After  the 
shock  to  the  habits  which  death  always  causes,  she  had 
resumed    her    life  in  a  much   more  agreeable  way. 

As  they  approached  the  house,  a  Hock  of  pigeons  came 
fluttering   down,  so  close   that   they  startled  Grace,  as    well 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  85 

as  Ned's  horse, —  "both  women,"  as  he  said,  —  tumbling 
and  rutiling  over  their  heads,  so  that  Grace  thought  they 
really  were  about  to  ahght  upon  her,  as  the  bees  had  done. 
However,  at  a  slight,  shrill  whistle,  they  all  trooped  away, 
to  the  other  side  of  the  house,  leaving  them  to  meet  in 
quiet   Mrs.  Marshall,  who  was  sitting  on  the  back  porch. 

"Ride  this  way,"  she  called  to  them.  "I  am  really  glad 
to  see  you,  Mr.  Ellison,  and  your  friends  too,"  —  shaking 
each  heartily  by  the  hand,  as  they  dismounted.  "  I  have 
just  had  my  entry-way  scrubbed,  and  I  cannot  find  it  in 
my  heart  to  let  you  go  in  there.  But,  come,"  she  said, 
turning  to  Grace,  "let  me  show  you  your  room;  you  must 
refresh  yourself,  and  then  we  can  get  acquainted." 

Grace  never  had  seen  anything  so  neat  as  this  widow's 
house.  She  stood  in  her  room  doubtful  where  she  might 
touch,  particularly  with  her  dusty  riding  clothes.  Mrs. 
Marshall,  however,  helped  to  untie  her  bonnet,  and  seemed 
so  kind  and  genial,  that  Grace  said  to  her,  "  I  feel  as 
though  it  would  be  a  pity  to  disturb  this  clean  and  beauti- 
ful room." 

"Do  not  fear,  my  child, —  this  cleanness  is  one  of  my 
hobbies.     But  I  do  not  wish  it  to  disturb  any  one." 

"  It  must  give  you  so  much  trouble  to  have  us  come 
here  —  " 

"  Not  so.  It  is  my  pleasure, — my  occupation, —  my  busi- 
ness ;    and  without  customers  I  should  do  but  poorly." 

When  Grace  joined  the  rest  at  the  tea-table,  she  found 
the  son  of  Mrs.  Marshall,  who  was  called  "  doctor."  He 
blushed  as  he  was  introduced  to  her.  Uncle  John  and  Mrs. 
Marshall  did  most  of  the  talking  at  the  table;  and  then 
they  walked  out  as  the  twilight  stole  on. 

"  How  do  you  keep  all  these  things  in  such  nice  order  ? 
Really,"  said  Ned,  "  it  is  quite  an  example  to  us." 


gQ  COTTAGE^^AND 

The  walks,  the  Jlowcr-beds,  and  the  grass  about  the 
house,  were  clean  and  agreeable. 

"  The  doctor  and  I,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall,  "  give  about  an 
hour  a  day  to  it;  and  as  we  do  it  regularly,  that  hour 
accomplishes  a  great  deal." 

"And  we  do  it  with  a  will, —  which  makes  some  differ- 
ence," said  the  doctor. 

"But  now  you  must  come,  —  though  I  think  it  is  too 
late, — "  Mrs.  Marshall  said,  "and  see  the  doctor's  family." 

"He's  a  bachelor?"  inquired  Ned,  looking  rather  curi- 
riously  at  Mrs.  Marshall,  who  did  not  seem  at  all  watchful 
of  her  dignity. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  in  a  like  strain;  "but  chickens  answer 
in  place   of  children." 

'T  was  in  the  morning  that  they  made  their  visit  to  tlie 
yards,  and  it  was  a  sight  to  see  the  doctor  among  his 
feathered   friends. 

The  pigeons,  before  spoken  of,  settled  and  hung  upon 
him ;  and  one  could  hardly  walk  through  the  small  yards 
for  the  crowds  of  Poland^,  and  pheasant  hens,  which  stop- 
ped the  way.  The  great  Silesian  ducks  waddled  up  to  the 
doctor,  with  their  good  mornings;  and  the  bantams  crowed 
at  his  advent.  They  all  laughed  heartily  at  the  curious 
jealously  which  these  little  soldiers  showed  toward  the  game 
cocks.  They  found  there,  almost  domesticated,  quails  and 
pheasants,  which  the  doctor  said  he  had  at  first  hatched 
under  the   hens. 

lie  was  at  home  now,  and  all  his  diflidence  vanished; 
was  glad  to  talk  with  Grace,  and  promised  her  of  the 
kinds   which   she   fancied. 

"For  you  know,"  she  said,  "  we  are  country  people;  and 
I   must    look   about    for    occupation,  before  I    get  wearied. 


C  0  T  T  A  G  E     L  I  F  E  87 

1  shall  recruit  Ned  into  my  service,  and  commence  the 
business." 

"  Do  you  intend  to  raise  game  chickens  ? "  Ned  asked, 
"  for    if  you  do,  I  shall  turn  cock  fighter." 

"But  again  —  I  want  to  know,"  Grace  inquired,  "what 
you   do   with   all   these  —  what  becomes   of  them?" 

The    Doctor  laid  his   hand   below  his   heart,  and  bowed. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Ned,  "  a  law  of  nature,  and  no  mira- 
cle  at   all." 

"  I  discovered,"  explained  the  doctor,  "  in  my  anatomi- 
cal studies,  a  large  vacancy  here  —  quite  surprising,  indeed  — 
which  nature  and  I  both  disliked.  I  concluded  to  do  what 
would  fill  my  own,  and  some  others,  rather  than  to  min- 
ister to  the  fretfulness  of  men,  the  vapors  of  women,  or 
the  wailings  of  children  —  and  here  you  see  me ;  here 
are  my  patients,  except  some  few  people  about  us,  whom 
poverty  has  taught  politeness  —  and  here  you  see  I  have 
an  independence.  I  have  time,  through  this,  to  pursue 
some  pathological  investigations,  which  are  enough  to  keep 
me  from  inanition.  T  can  pay  for  what  books  and  claret 
I  want,  and  what  traveling  is  necessary.  As  for  clothes, 
you  see,"  he  said — a  little  vain,  perhaps,  of  his  cordu- 
roys,  which  were   much   worn,   but    quite    neat   and   white. 

The  morning  advanced,  and  they  soon  made  their  adieus. 
Mrs.  Marshall  said  —  "But  you  will  stop  here  again  on 
your  return  ?  " 

"  I  think  not,"  Uncle  John  replied ;  "  I  am  the  guide, 
and  I  propose  to  go  through  the  plains  to  the  camp 
ground.  Perhaps  you  will  be  there,  for  I  suppose  you  have 
not  yet  been  proselyted  to    Catholicism  !  " 

"Not  yet,"  she  replied.  "But  they  are  able  to  get  along 
without  me ;   and  I   feel   more    at  ease   at  home." 


88  COTTAGES     AND 

So  amid  mutual  expressions  of  I\iiuiiie.ss,  they  parted  — 
promising  further  acquaintance. 

"  Well,"  said  Grace,  as  they  rode  away,  "  these  people 
must  be   happy." 

"  Gloves  against  kisses,"  wagered  Ned,  "  that  they,  too, 
have  skeletons  in  their  chambers.     How  is  it.  Uncle  John?'' 

"  Tlie    doctor  was  once    in    love." 

"And  jilted?"   asked   Grace. 

"No  —  but  his  true  love  died.  Perhaps  he  does  not  for- 
get her.  To  love  somebody  is  a  necessity  with  him  —  and 
such   people   always  have  pets." 

"  Well,   how  is  it  with   his    mother  ? " 

"She  is,  as  you  see,  a  melancholy  example  of  neatness, 
and  the  flies  are  a  perpetual  source  of  misery  to  her  ;  as 
she  sometimes  says  —  "It  is  so  provoking,  because  they  get 
no  good  for  all  the  dirt  they  make.  If  they  enjoyed  my 
paint,  I  should  not  care  so  much  about  it." 
'T  "  When  one  virtue,  even  cleanness,"  said  Ned,  "  over- 
grows the  rest,  it  seems  to  make  misery  and  discomfort. 
But  certainly  they  have  succeeded  in  getting  things  about 
them  in  excellent  order,  and  in  admirable  taste.  To  me, 
they  seem  to  have  done  just  enough  with  nature.  She  's 
a  sluttish  jade    and  needs   a   master." 

"  Well,"   said  Grace,  "  how  did  they  do  it  ?  " 

"The  doctor  is  not  such  a  fool,"  replied  Uncle  John, 
"as  you  perhaps   took   him    to    be." 

"  Fool  !  "  said  she,  "  1  only  thought  him  a  little  raw  at 
first ;  but  how — fool  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  was  wise  man  enough  to  learn  something 
from  the  experience  of  other  peoj)lc.  A  man,  who  goes 
groping  into  a  dark  wood,  will  knock  his  head,  if  he 
do  nt    lose    his    money.       Mr.    Marshall     had    seen    both    of 


COTTAGE      F.  I  F  E.  89 

these  accidents  happen  to  country  gentlemen,  and  very 
wisely  paid  an  architect  for  his  advice  and  assistance  — 
and   a   gardener   for  his  —  and  tkus   started   right." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  shall  not  do  it,  then,"  said  Grace, 
"  for   Uncle  Tom   certainly  will   plan   things   himself." 

"  He  has  done  it  in  one  case ;  perhaps  he  will  in 
others." 

"  What  do  you  think,  Uncle  John,  of  his  plan  for  a 
house  ?  " 

*' I  like  it  —  but  think  it  quite  too  expensive  as  he  will 
build  it.  Tom  has  an  income  of  some  five  or  six  thou- 
sand dollars,  and  ought  not  to  build  a  house  to  exceed 
it.  But  we  shall  see.  A  man  can  live  well,  whose  house 
does   not   cost  more   than  the   amount   of  his   income." 

"That   would   be    too   cheap,"  said   Grace. 

"Not   a  bit  —  it's   a   safe  rule." 

"  If  there  is  any  thing  despicable,"  said  Ned,  "  it  is  a 
man,  who,  because  successful  in  some  one  thing,  presumes 
upon  that,  to  be  capable  for  any  thing ;  and  I  'm  sure 
Uncle  Tom  is  not  one  of  that  kind.  It  is  the  commonest 
thing  for  men,  who  by  luck,  mere  luck,  perhaps,  have  got 
themselves,  as  they  think,  beyond  the  reach  of  the  alms- 
house, to  pronounce  upon  things  that  they  can  know  no- 
thing of — upon  which  they  have  had  no  time  to  study  or 
think.  Art,  architecture,  actors — these  are  too  simple  for 
these  men,  plague  on  them !  I  always  feel  as  though  I 
should   insult  them." 

"Ned,  Ned  —  insult,  if  it  will  do  any  good;  but  don't 
forget  yourself,   above    all  things." 

Ned   smiled,   and   confessed   his   youth. 

'T   was    a   day  or    two   after    this   that  they    approached, 
with  the    evening,    the    house    of    Mr.    and    Mrs.    Wilson, 
whom  we   will  introduce   in   the  next  chapter. 
12 


COTTAGES     AND 


DESCRIPTION     OF     P  L  A  T  K     Xl. 

This  is  uot  ii  very  largu  house,  being  forty  by  thirty 
feet.  It  is  not  a  plan  which  should  be  built  chea{»ly  — 
I  mean  iu  a  cheap  style.  All  the  ornaments  and  finish- 
ings should  be   phiin  and  neat. 

The  totver  will  contain  two  small  rooms  above  the  water 
closet.  This  is  accessible  by  the  covered  passage,  which, 
continued,  forms  a  piazza  at  the  back  of  the  house.  This 
tower  may  be  dispensed  with,  and  the  house  still  be  com- 
plete and  harmonious.  The  railing  shoidd  be  of  hght 
iron  work. 

The  parlor  chimney  should  be  carried  out  at  the  center 
of  the  roof 

The  plan  will  explain  itself  in  other  respects.  The  ter- 
race may  be  of  any  size,  and  should  be  fUmished  with 
trees,  shrubs,  and  beds  of  fragi-ant  flowers. 

It  is  easily  seen  that  this  plan  can  be  enlarged  to  an- 
other size,  so  that  the  dining  room  wdl  be  extended,  say 
two,  or  three  feet,  without  injui'ing  the  proportions. 


w.c. 


Terrc 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  91 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson,  and  Miss  Margaret  Wilson,  were 
sitting  in  the  dining  room  of  their  dwelling  (Plate  VII). 
Mr.  W.'s  shoes  were  brushed  and  tied;  but  Mrs.  W.  still 
wore  her  dressing  gown;  and  Miss  W.'s  head  was  well 
and  carefully  dressed,  while  her  feet  were  at  the  opposite 
extreme.  They  indulged  in  the  following  remarks,  in 
which  Mr.  W.  occasionally  joined,  —  descending  from  his 
newspaper  to  their  more  earthly  regions,  and  again  mount- 
ing,—  a  messenger,  a  perpetual  Mercury,  he  seemed,  be- 
tween heaven    and   earth. 

Mrs.  W.  Well,  we  have  got  out  invitations  for  two 
hundred,  city  friends  and  all.  Now,  is  there  any  body 
whom  we  have   not  yet   asked  ? 

Mr.  W.      There  's   the    Hawleys. 

Miss  W.  Don't  ask  them; — they  are  not  in  society. 
We  shall  have  to  go  and  call ;  —  and  they  never  give  any 
parties.  , 

Mr.  W.     The   Ellisons? 

Mrs.  W.     I   had   entirely   forgotten   them. 

Miss  W.  They  are  nothing  but  leather  dealers  and  gro- 
cers. It  '11  be  time  enough  to  invite  them  when  we  see 
whether  they  are  going  to  give  any  parties,  and  be  any 
thing  in   society. 

Mr.  W.  {With  a  wave  of  his  hand.)  My  daughter  — 
you  should  always  remember  that  in  the  subordinate  ranks 
of    life   we    often    meet  with    worthy   persons,   that    for    a 


92  G()TTAGi:s     AJSD 

single  chinicra,  tho  sacrifices  which  good  sense  only  should 
dictate,  should  never  be  sacrificed,  and  rendered  entirely 
subordinate  to  the  will  of  the  person  holding  them.  I  have 
myself  dealt   in    cotton. 

Miss.  W.     Yes,    pa;    hut    tliat   was   a  good   while  ago! 

After  delivering  himself  of  this  address,  Mr.  W.  took 
no  further  part  in  the  discussion,  which  must  have  been 
too  trivial  for  his  exalted  powers.  An  unwashed  servant 
boy    put   his    head    in    the   door:  — 

"  Three  folks  in  the  entry ;  shall  I  put  '  em  in  the  par- 
lor, Miss  Wilson?" 

The  lady  addressed  with  this  youthful  prefix  spoke  a^ain: 

Mrs.  W.     Who    can   they    be? — who   are    they? 

Boy.     Do  n't  know. 

Mrs.  W.     Margaret,   you    must   go    in ;     I    do  nt    look    lit. 

Miss  W.  I  'm  not  going  in;  —  somebody  come  over  here 
to  get   an   invitation. 

Mr.  W.  Tell  them  to  walk  into  the  drawing  room,  of 
course.       I    will    myself  see    who    they  are. 

He  sent  the  boy  with  word  that  it  was  the  Ellisons; 
when    out   both    of  our    ladies    hastened. 

Mrs.  W.,  shaking  Uncle  John  l)y  the  hand,  seized  hold 
of  Grace,  —  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks:  "1  declare,  how 
fortunate.  Your  neice,  of  course.  Miss  Ellison  —  my  daugh- 
ter Margaret  —  Miss  Ellison  —  and  —  "  she  stopped,  looking 
at  Ned. 

"  My  equally  fortunate  nephew,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  Ed- 
ward   Lee." 

Sublime  politeness  was  impressed  upon  every  motion  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  W.  Miss  Margaret  W.  at  once  took  pos- 
session of  Grace,  and  plied  her  with  most  affectionate 
inquiries ;    while  Mr.  and    Mrs.    W.    were    equally   assiduous 


COTTAGELIFE.  93 

toward  Uncle  John.  .Ned,  of  course,  feeling  for  a  moment 
as  though  he  was  an  "excess  of  glory."  —  ^' So  fortunate," 
said  Mrs.  W.,  —  "  so  keureiix,''  which,  in  her  French,  sounded 
very  like  "  horrid,"  "  that  you  should  have  arrived  just 
when  you  did.  We  were  just  about  sending  a  valet  to 
invite   you   to   our   party   to-morrow   night." 

Uncle  John  explained,  that  they  were  in  no  trim  for  a 
party.  But  Mrs.  W,  explained,  "  that  it  was  the  merest 
sociable  —  a  few  friends  —  a  few  particular  friends  —  quite 
en  famille." 

The  next  day,  Mr.  W.  took  Uncle  John  and  Ned  over 
his  place.  "A  good,  quiet,  unpretending  mansion,"  said  he; 
"  not  at  all  such  as  he  should  have  built,  had  he  drawn 
upon  the  original,  inventive  faculties  of  his  own  mind. 
There  were  many  things  about  the  place  that  he  would 
have  had  entirely  different  —  too  many  walks  —  too  much 
to  keep  in  order.  Not  that  the  expense  itself  was,  in  itself, 
a  consideration ;  —  but,  to  a  person  who  felt  himself  im- 
pressed with  the  responsibility  of  wealth,  there  were  ways 
of  disbursing    much   more   congenial." 

As  an  instance:  —  they  were  met  by  a  laborer,  who, 
touching  his  hat,  indicated  that  he  would  like  to  speak  to 
Mr.  W.  "My  good  fellow,  what  is  it  j^ou  wish  with  me?" 
"Two  days'  work,  sir,  if  you  please,  —  a  dollar."  "Have 
you  a  bill  made  out  and  properly  receipted?"  "  No,  sir — 
I  hav  n't ;  but  one  of  my  children  is  but  poorly."  "  We 
never  violate  the  rule  in  such  matters  ; "  and  Mr.  W. 
passed  on,  impressed  with  the  high  responsibilities  of  wealth. 

"Too  many  trees  —  too  many  trees,"  said  Mr.  W.  "The 
former  proprietor  seems  to  have  had  very  little  taste  or 
cultivation,  —  only  from  two  points  is  the  mansion  per- 
ceptible  from   the    roads." 

Ned   ventured    to   suggest    that,    in    a    country    residence. 


94  COTTAGESAND 

privacy    was    an   object — to   see    was    more    desirable    than 
to   be   seen. 

"  Youth,"  said  Mr.  W.,  smiling  benignantly,  "  is  i)r()ne  to 
look  through  a  distorted  medium.  The  focal  distances 
which  it  brings  to  bear  upon  the  great  problems  of  life, 
are  too  often  badly  suited  to  the  highly  organized  vision 
of  middle  age.  In  every  position,  my  young  friend,  we 
should  endeavor  to  dissect  the  good  which  is  around  us 
and  within  us  (God  forbid,  thought  Ned),  and,  leaving  on 
either  hand  the  bad,  turn  our  eyes,  before  it  is  too  late, 
to  that  source  from  whence  flow  fountains  of  light  and 
visions   of  glory !"' 

"Selah!"  said  Ned,  somewhat  to  Mr.  W.'s  surprise;  but 
his  attention  was  called  oG",  by  the  coming  up  of  the  ser- 
vant boy,  saying  that  jMiss  Wilson  wanted  a  sheet  of  paper. 
"Here,"  said  Mr.  W.,  giving  him  a  cent,  "  run  over  to  Mr. 
Jones's  and  get  a  sheet  of  his  best  —  mind  boy!" 

Mrs.  W.  regaled  Grace  with  accounts  of  the  miseries  of 
"  helps,"  under  which  she  was  to  enjoy  life  in  the  country  . 
and  gave  her,  from  the  stores  of  her  own  experience,  direc- 
tions how  to  get  them  to  do  the  most  work,  and  to  protect 
herself  against  their  impositions,  —  entirely  forgetting  that 
there  were  impositions  on  the  other  side.  The  truth  was, 
that  no  person  who  had  ever  been  in  the  neighborhood 
would  live  w^ith  Mrs.  W.,  and  she  was  always  badly  sup- 
plied  with   the    refuse    of  city   help. 

The  "sociable"  came  off  in  due  time,  and  Grace,  in 
one  of  Miss  W.'s  whirlwind  dresses,  appeared  among  the 
guests;  and,  as  she  said,  the  thought  that  it  was  not  to 
continue  more  than  an  hour  or  two,  prevented  her  from 
laughing,   or   crying,  outright. 

The  house  was  turned  this  way  and  that;  on  all  sides, 
things    were   rearranged    and    disarranged,   and    in    a    very 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  95 

strange  way,  as  she  thought,  for  a  few  friends,  "  en  fa- 
mille." 

Mrs.  W.,  mounted  beneath  a  high  turban,  dispensed  her 
welcomes,   and   French,   profusely. 

She  never  neglected  an  opportunity  of  making  a  lion, 
and  Grace  was  made  to  reflect  her  glory,  through  private 
explanations; — "quite  au  monde,  —  immensely  rich  —  de 
Vargent  —  really  quite  passee{\)  &;c.,  &c.  All  of  which 
well   meant   patronizings   were   no   doubt  understood. 

"Who  is  this  Miss  Ellison?"  said  one  of  a  small  knot 
of  gentlemen. 

"  Oh,  some  fortune-hunter  whom  Mrs.  W.  has  found  in 
the   neighborhood  !" 

"Oh,  no!  old  Leather  Ellison's  daughter;  well  enough 
off,  if  the   mining   company  turns   out   well." 

"  She  's   good    looking  ?  " 

"Yes  —  if  she  hadn't  such  an  ill  managed  dress — quite 
in   Miss   Margaret's   style." 

Those  ladies  who  were  old  enough  to  feel  it  safe  to  sit 
down,  soon  occupied  the  few  seats.  The  rest  stood  about, 
waiting  for  what  it  should  please  God  to  send.  Grace, 
assiduously  attended  by  Mr.  Derwent,  heard  and  saw  many 
things. 

"  Why  do  n't   the   dancing  begin  ?  " 

"  Bless  your  soul !  do  n't  you  know  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
W.  belong   to   the   church?" 

"There's  Miss  Wallace.  I  am  surprised  that,  at  her 
age,   she   can   try   to   carry   it   off  so ! " 

"  One   would  n't  think   she   was   sixteen." 

"  Old   enough   to    be    her   own   mother,"    Ned    suggested. 

Dresses,  manners,  looks,  and  character^  were  criticised  in 
quite  a  family  and  sociable  way;  until  a  slight,  quavering 
voice,  assisted  by  the  piano,  gradually  hushed  the  company, 


96  C  O  T  T  A  G  E  S     AND 

one  by  one,  running  the  matrons  into  a  whisper,  fainter 
and  fainter,  until  at  the  close  of  the  sentence  they  blazed 
up  into  ••  unheard  of  cxpjjnditure,"  "  scandalous  intimacy," 
"  he  's  a  great  deal  too  i^Kod  for  her,"  or  some  such  good 
natured  phrase,  wlien  they  lapsed  into  an  unwilling  silence. 

The  politicians  and  speculators  were  snubbed  shortly  up, 
and  stood  in  awkward  impatience,  until  the  end  of  the 
song;  when  they  continued  their  remarks,  having  been  able 
to  remember  their  last  word  with  great  accuracy.  Only  a 
few  more  reckless  spirits,  stimulated  by  bright  eyes  and 
ruby  lips,  were  able  to  continue  their  delightful  conversa- 
tions; and  even  these  at  last  fell  into  langor  toward  the 
end   of  the   song. 

The  turban,  happening  to  approach  Grace,  who  was 
patiently  listening  to  Mr.  Derwent,   pounced   upon    her  — 

"Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Ellison,  you  umst  sing  —  voulez  vous 
chantez!  I  am  certain  you  can  sing."  And  Grace,  wil- 
ling, perhaps,  to  relieve  herself  from  Derwent's  verbiage, 
allowed  herself  to  be  led  away  to  the  piano ;  —  and  thus 
gave  quite  a  number  of  well  dressed  men  an  opportunity 
of  adjourning  to  the  side  board,  where  they  consumed  their 
leisure,  and  "old  W.'s"  wine.  The  party  ended  as  such 
attempts  usually  do,  —  some  were  silly,  and  others  drunken. 

Mr.  W.,  only,  was  able  to  make  his  appearance  next 
morning;  but  he  bowed,  and  waved,  our  friends  away,  in 
a  very  cordial  —  perhaps  dignified  —  style. 


r.t 


COTTAGE     LIKK.  1)7 


DESCRIPTION     OF    PLATE     VII. 

This  class  of  cottages  has  a  picturesque  and  romantic 
effect,  and  should  be  used  with  caution.  They  are 
peculiarly  unsuited  to  our  level,  warm  plains.  It  is 
very  diliicult  to  make  the  ventilation  of  the  upper  part 
sufficient  to   keep   the   chambers  comfortable. 

The  heavy,  long  drops  of  the  verge  board  are  striking. 
In  this  class  of  ornaments,  fancy  and  boldness  are  ne- 
cessary. 

The  color  of  these  houses  should  be  darker  than  in 
any  of  the  Itahan  cottages  —  indicating  firmness  and 
stabihty. 

In  the  parlor,  a  window  on  the  fi'ont  is  seen,  which 
may  be  omitted  (or  it  may  be  used  in  place  of  the 
two  smaller  windows  at  the  angles),  to  make  room  for 
a  large  piece  of  fm^niture,  such  as  a  sofa,  or  piano.  A 
door   may   open   into   the   hall,   under   the   stau-case. 

The  dining  room  has  but  one  broad  window,  opening 
upon  a  porch,  furnished  with  seats,  for  the  convenience 
of  smokers. 

The  roofs  project  one  to  two  feet  over  the  gables; 
but,  at  the  eaves,  no  more  than  in  the  common  car- 
penter's  house. 

Estunate,  $1,900. 


1.3 


98  ^ < > TT A G  E S     AN  1) 


CIIAPTKIl    XIX. 

"Well,"  said  Uncle  John,  "how  do  you  mix  with  the 
Wilsons  ?  " 

"They  are  wretched  people,"  said  Grace;  "why  did 
you  bring  us  here?     I  do  n't  want  to   know  them." 

"You  need  not  visit  them — where  fglks  don't  suit  you, 
keep  out  of  their  way  —  they  will  like  you  as  little  as  you 
do  them." 

"  This  is  most  ungrateful,"  said  Ned.  "  With  Miss  Mar- 
garet's beautiful  robe,  and  the  elegant  Derwent's  atten- 
tions,  you  should  have   been    a   happy  woman." 

"Ho!  ho!  Ned.  Derwent,  I  am  afraid,  is  not  conge- 
nial to  you.  Perhaps  you  liked  Miss  Margaret  —  such 
seemed   to   be   the   opinion." 

"  Whose  opinion  ?  " 

"Mine,  perhaps.     Who   winces  now — eh,  Ned?" 

"  Say  no  more  —  let  's   kiss  and  be  friends." 

They  rode  on  slowly  for  some  time,  in  silence.  There 
was  that  dreamy  quiet  in  the  air  which  made  the  falling 
of  a   leaf,   or   the   twitter   of  a  bird,   an   incident. 

"Where  shall  we  stop  next?"  said  Grace.  "No  more 
subUmity,  I  hope  !" 

"  We  shall  get  further  among  the  mountains  before  night, 
and  meet,  I  hope,  with  Mr.  Langton  —  quite  a  different  kind 
of  person.'' 

"  You  have  told  me  something  of  him,"  said  Ned.  "  He 
is,  or   was,  an   artist,  you  said  ? " 


G  O  T  T  A  G  E     L  I  F  E  .  99 

"Yes  —  and  I  promised  to  tell  you  more  of  him.  I 
will   do  it  to-day,  while  we  ride    towards    his    house." 

"  It  will  help  us  to  get  acquainted  with  him,  and  save 
many  of  the  common-places,  which  are  so  many  knocks 
upon   the   door,  asking   to  enter." 

"  Part  of  these  things,"  began  Uncle  John,  "  I  was  told 
by  himself;  some    I   heard  in    other  ways." 

Mr.  Langton  returned  from  Italy,  after  having  spent  some 
five  or  six  years  there,  with  a  beautiful  young  wife. 
They  settled  in  the  city,  as  it  seemed  necessary  for  an 
artist  to  be  in  the  way  of  the  world.  A  good  deal  ab- 
sorbed in  the  pursuit  of  art  and  a  livelihood,  he  could 
not  give  to  his  wife  as  much  care  and  attention  as,  be- 
ing a  stranger,  she  needed.  She  had  been  educated  in  the 
midst  of  art,  but  had  nothing  for  it  but  a  sentiment ; 
while  Langton  really  required  some  understanding  of  it. 
Left,  therefore,  much  to  her  own  thoughts,  and  speaking 
our  language  imperfectly,  she  was  delighted  with  the  ar- 
rival of  a  cousin  younger  than  herself,  yet  so  near  her 
own  age  as  to  be  a  companion  and  friend.  Langton 
himself  felt  that  his  attention  to  her  was  an  act  of  kind- 
ness to  him.  He  pursued  his  art  with  increased  appli- 
cation, and  one  of  the  freshest  and  most  brilliant  of  his 
earlier  compositions  approached  its  completion.  The  land- 
scape is  beautiful  —  every  thing  seems  bathed  in  sunshine  ; 
a  few  tleecy  clouds  lie  in  the  calm  sky,  and  in  the  hori- 
zon are  the  faintest  indications  of  coming  storms  —  but, 
plainly  upon  a  rock  among  the  flowers  Hes  a  snake,  whose 
glittering  eye  fascinates  you,  and  to  which  your  own  is 
constantly  returning.  The  owner  of  the  picture  has  tried 
without  success,  to  get  him  to  complete  it :  for  it  was 
left  unfinished. 

At  this   time,   the   smoothness  of  his  life  was  disturbed  — 


100  C()TTA(;i;s    and 

its  serenity  l)aiiishcd.  His  wile  iiad,  with  this  ('oiisin,  sailtul 
for  Italy,  with  no  consent  —  with  no  hint  to  him.  She  left 
htliiiul  her  a  (laughter,  wiidm  we  shall  see :  at  that  time 
(juite  young; — and  this  desertion  makes  it  seem  probable 
that  she  was  overcome  by  other  feelings  than  love  of 
country  and  friends.  Langton,  himself,  disappeared  ;  some 
supposed,  in  pursuit  of  his  wife.  The  child  was  taken 
care    of  by  some   friends. 

After  several  months'  absence,  he  returned  to  his  pur- 
suits—  worked  with  unceasing  perseverance  —  met  all  debts, 
—  and  externally  was  a  calm,  contented,  and  prosperous 
artist.  Those  who  had  known  him  well  before  have  told 
me  that  lie  mi.s  changed.  His  liumor  and  life  now  had 
a  touch  of  sarcasm,  occasionally  bitter.  He  never  alluded 
to  his  wife,  or  to  his  own  absence  —  it  was  a  subject 
which  all  respected.  He  has  several  times  promised  to 
give  me  a  sketch  of  his  life;  and  perhaps  he  will  do  it 
upon    this  visit.      We   shall   see. 

Ned  interrupted  the  relation,  by  calling  attention  to  the 
threatening   state    of  the   sky. 

"These  clouds,"  said  he,  "have  been  creeping  over  the 
hills,  and  look  disposed  for  mischief.  The  winds  sometimes 
sweep  through  these  ravines  with  force,  and  the  storms 
burst  wild    and  sudden." 

"  You  are  right,  Ned  ;  and  we  must  ride  fast,  so  as  to 
reach  Langton's  house,"  said  Uncle  John.  "  Come,  Grace, 
let  's  try  the  mettle  of  your  new  horse  —  it  's  not  more 
than  a  mile." 

"  He  's  good  for  it,"  she  said.  "  What  should  I  do  now 
on  this  steep  mountain  road,  with  Uncle  Tom's  old  hack  ? 
He  's  as  short  winded  and  stupid  as  a  judge,  and  almost 
as  Blow^" 

"  See,"  said   Ned,   "  on    the    crest   of   the    further   hill  the 


GOTTAGh:     LIFE.  101 

branches  feel  the  wind  ;  and  further  down  it  is  plain  that 
the  storm  has  broken  —  it  follows  us  fast.  Grace,  do  n't 
keep  so  much  ahead, —  do  n't  run  the  risk  of  breaking  your 
neck  to  escape  a  wetting." 

"I  hear  the  sound  of  the  wind,"  said  Uncle  John  —  "we 
had  better  get  shelter  if  we  can.  The*e  black  clouds 
spread  —  the  house  is  not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  pro- 
jecting rock." 

"  My  horse,"  said  Ned,  "  has  caught  a  stone  in  his  shoe. 
I  will  take  it  out,  and  be    after  you." 

The  clatter  of  their  hoofs  awakened  the  rocky  sounds  on 
the  one  side  —  on  the  other,  the  tempestuous  winds  roared 
and  shrieked  as  they  came  swiftly  up  the  gorge.  He  stood 
for  an  instant,  and  then  mounting  his  horse,  dashed  on  to 
the  shelter.  He  reached  the  shed  as  Grace  and  Uncle  John 
were  leaving  it  for  the  house.  As  they  approached  it  they 
heard  some  one  speaking.  Uncle  John  took  hold  of  Grace's 
arm. 

"  Listen  a  moment." 

"  Will  ye  come  upon  me,  ye  storms  of  hell,  again  !  Are 
not  age  and  desolation  miseries  enough,  that  ye,  too,  should 
beat  upon  my  moss  grown  and  time  eaten  body  !  Where 
is  the  crown  —  the  leafy  chaplet — in  which  I  once  wagged 
this  head — now  bare  and  hoary?  Ye  have  torn  it  from 
me,  and  leaf  by  leaf  tossed  it  for  your  sport.  Keep  off, 
I  tell  ye !  What,  nearer  !  /  hear  your  bowlings.  Hah  !  ye 
chafe  and  overbear  07ie  another  !  Shall  not  the  wicked  des- 
troy themselves,  oh,  God?  I  see  your  mocking  eyes.  The 
curses  of  the    aged    are    a  weight  !     Pass  on — " 

The  speaker,  as  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  porch,  stop- 
ped with  his  arm  extended,  and  for  an  instant  a  shade  of 
surprise  and  doubt  passed  over  his  face. 

"  Heavens  !    what   a   surprise  !     Did  the   storm   blow   you 


10:2  COTTAGKS     AND 

up  here  ?  To  have  caught  me  in  a  rhapsody,  too.  I  was 
talking  for  the  old  white-wood,  which  stands  below  us 
there,  singly  and  high.  Every  storm  »shears  off  something. 
I  hope   he  '11    hold    up   his  head  as  long  as  I   do." 

Some  little  by-talk  and  congratulation,  between  Mr  Lang- 
ton  and  his  frii-nds,  gave  Grace  an  opportunity  to  notice 
that,  although  he  did  not  seem  old,  yet  his  hair,  which  was 
quite  thick,  was  entirely  white  —  he  was  closely  shaven, 
and  dressed  with  care  and  a  little  precision  :  as  she  thought, 
very  incorrect  in  aji  artist  —  but  perhaps  he,  himself,  did 
not  suppose  dirt  and  disorder  assisted  genius,  or  any  other 
good  thing.  When  she  had  first  seen  him,  she  thought  his 
eyes  were  black ;  but  now  as  she  saw  them,  they  were 
really  blue,  and  at  times  seemed  a  little  dull,  like  the  eyes 
of  near-sighted  persons. 

They  stood  in  the  shelter  of  the  piazza,  watching  the 
storm,  which  had  now  spread  itself  over  more  than  half  of 
the  landscape.  The  sun  shone  on  the  distant  fields  and 
forests,  toward  which  the  hosts  of  wind  and  rain  marched 
with  an  irresistible  step.  The  tall  crops  of  the  plains  laid 
themselves  low.  The  crashing  and  groaning  of  the  trees, 
mingled  with  the  roaring  of  the  winds,  the  sound  of  the 
rains,  and  the  rattling  thunder.  No  one  spoke  —  all  seemed 
Jillrd  with  tli(^  might  and  fury  of  the  storm.  A  loud  claj) 
of  thunder  broke  over  their  heads.  Grace  put  her  hands 
before  her  face,  and  leaned  against  the  house,  when  Tncle 
John  took  her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  within.  '•  Thank 
God,"  said  he   to  himself,  "  that  we   got  this   shelter." 

The  storm  gradually  passed  away  —  and  so  did  the  fears 
of  Grace,  who  said  of  herself,  that  she  was  ashamed  of  her 
"unmanly"  weakness.  "My  nerves,"  she  continued,  "were 
so  excited  with  the  grand,  dr^^adful  power  of  the  winds, 
that  when    the    thunder   broke,   it  seemed    to   me    that    my 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  103 

brain  had  burst  its  bounds,  and  for  an  instant  I  could 
not  see." 

The  passing  oil  of  the  storm  was  also  beautiful.  In 
watching  from  the  window  the  varying  clouds — the  fresh- 
ened landscape  in  the  cleared  and  invigorated  atmosphere, 
she  felt  new  and  deep  sensations,  which  nature  in  quieter 
forms  had  excited,  but  in  a  slight  degree.  Under  the  in- 
fluence of  these  feelings,  Grace  did  not  notice  the  entrance 
of  any  one,  until  she  was  touched  on  the  shoulder;  then 
looking  up.  she  saw  a  child  of  fourteen,  dressed  in  white, 
with  her  arms  and  her  feet  bare.  She  had  clear  and  beau- 
tiful dark,  hazel  eyes,  and  an  olive  complexion;  while  her 
hair  was  a  rich,  golden    auburn. 

"  My  father,"  she  said,  "  thinks  you  may  wish  to  go  to 
your   room.     Will   you   go?" 

"Will  you   go   with   me?"    asked  Grace. 

"  I    will,"   she   replied. 

As  she  stepped  lightly  before  her,  Grace  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  see  how  natural  and  graceful  was  every  motion  — 
simple,  yet  complete. 

"  This  is  it,  —  a  pretty  little  room.  It 's  mine  when 
there   is   nobody   here." 

Grace  admired  the  view  from  the  window, — the  few- 
fine  engravings  which  hung  against  the  wall,  —  the  slender 
glass  of  wild  flowers  that  stood  upon  the  snow  covered 
table. 

"  Will  you  come  in,"  Grace  asked,  "  and  tell  me  all 
about  yourself?      But   what  is   your   name?" 

"Julia,"  the  child  answered.  "I  must  not  come  in,  for 
my  father  does  not  wish  me  to  talk  with  strangers.  But 
you   will  kiss   me?  —  you   are   so   beautiful. 

"  And   now,   good   bye." 


10  1  coTTA(;i!:s    and 

•'  l>iit  I  shall  .see  you  again,"  said  Lirace,  as  she  put 
ln'i-    aims    round    her   and    kissed    her   again. 

"  Oh,  I    think    so.       I    will    ask    the    priest." 

"Priest!  Do  you  have  a  catliolic  priest  here?"  said 
Grace,  with  a  tone  which  clearly  said,  "this  is  strange  — 
what  new  horror  shall  we  fall  into?"  At  any  rate,  it 
expressed    great  surprise.     The    child   smilingly   said, — 

"Only  my  father;  —  he's  the    priest." 

This  was  a  new  matter  of  speculation  crowded  upon 
Grace,  who  continued  standing,  as  Julia  left  her,  when 
she  came  to  tell  that  the  priest,  and  he?-  father,  and  bro- 
ther, were  waiting  for  her,  and  would  eat  all  the  biscuits, 
and  drink  all  the  wine,  if  she  did  not  come  soon;  — 
"for,"   said    she,    "they    seem    to    be    pretty   hungry." 

"  /  am  not  hungry,"  said  Grace.  "  Won't  you  go  and 
walk    with   mc?     But,  stay,  I  will  ask   your  father  myself." 

"  1    am   not   afraid,"   said   Julia. 

Mr.  Langton  gave  his  consent,  saying,  "It  is  not  with 
every  one  that  1  am  willing  to  send  the  child, —  one  hour 
of  the  gossip  6f  some  of  your  worldly  young  women  would 
destroy  my  work  of  years.  But  return  as  the  sun  sets, 
that  we  may  take  a  fresh  dish  of  tea;  for,  whether  we 
take  the  gossip   with  it,  or  not,  it  is  a  sharpener  of  fancy." 

While  they  were  gone,  the  conversation  turned  ui)on 
matters  in  the  world,  of  which  they  all  kept  watch  — 
though  not,  as  some  would  think,  actively  engaged  with 
them.  Uncle  John  finally  led  it  to  art  and  artists,  and 
reminded  Mr.  Langton  of  his  having  promised  to  give  him 
some  points  of  his  own  life.  This  he  again  promised  to 
do  in  the  evening,  if  he  could  find  some  slight  notes 
wliicii    he    had. 

Julia    took    Grace    into    a    secluded    deli    near   the    house. 

"  Here,"  said   she,  "  is   my   llower  garden.      In    the  spring, 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  105 

I  gather  all  the  pretty  things  I  can  find,  and  near  my 
little  fountain  I  have  all  the  best  anemonies  and  violets, 
and  the  geraniums;  and,  come,  I'll  show  you  so  many 
asters, —  they  are  in  bloom  —  and  then,  further  on,  the 
golden   rods — " 

"If  this  storm  has  not  blown  them  all  down?"  sug- 
gested  Grace. 

"No;    you  see  the  winds  always  go  over  this  place." 

And  so,  indeed,  it  was.  Every  thing  was  uninjured. 
Grace  admired  the  pleasures  of  this  child,  whose  delight 
was  so  doubled  by  the  sympathy  which  she  really  felt  and 
expressed. 

"  How,"  she  asked,  "  did  you  learn  the  names  of  all 
these   things?      Have   you   books    and  teachers?" 

"The  priest  tells  me.  I  do  not  read  in  books,  because 
he  does  not  wish  it.  But  when  I  find  any  thing  beautiful, 
I  learn  the  name  of  it  from  him  —  and  then  I  write  it 
down.  So,  in  the  winter  (or  when  it  storms),  I  can  read 
them  over;  and  I  see  the  things  themselves  almost,  —  and 
I  fancy  how  the  roots  of  the  little  plants  are  busying 
themselves  under  ground  —  getting  every  thing  ready  for 
the    spring. 

"  But,  come  a  little  further ;  I  will  show  you  my  grotto. 
The  priest  has  helped  me  to  lay  the  rocks." 

They  went  in,  and  Grace  found  it  was  large  enough  for 
both  of  them  to  sit  on  the  rocky  seats,  or  to  stand  at  full 
hight. 

"  Here  are   my  minerals.     Every  little  while,  I  rearrange 

them.       You   see  I   have  only  such   as   are  beautiful.      See 

what  a  great  piece  of  feldspar, — and   mica,  —  and  crystals; 

and   I   have  a  few   shells,  but  they  are   not   so   handsome, 

because   there   was   no   life   in    them  when   I   got   them. — 

I   do  not  like   to  kill." 
14 


I  Ofi  C  O  T  T  A  (".  F  S     AND 

"  These  are  pretty  leatliers,  too,"'  said  Grace.  "  You  make 
a  bouquet  of  them— ^" 

"A  what?"    Julia  asked. 

"You  arrange  them  in  little  group.s.  I  like  them,"  said 
Grace,  "  they  are  so  delicate." 

"  But  come,  now  we  must  go  round  below  the  house, 
see  the  cascade,  and  return.  Look  at  it  once  more," 
said   Julia.     "  U  nt   it   pretty?" 

"Very  beautiful,"  said  Grace;  "and  1  love  you  for 
showing   me   these   things." 

"Oh!"  said  Julia,  "I  am  so  glad  you  love  me.  1 
loved  you  when  I  first  saw  you;  then  I  thought  you  were 
sad;  but  you  ai-e  not  so  always?  Sometimes  I  think  1 
shall  be  sad;  but  I  don't  know  what  for,  —  and  then  I 
go   and   see   my  father.       I   think   he   is   sorry   sometimes." 

As  they  walked  over  the  uneven  path,  Grace  took  great 
pleasure  in  watching  the  spontaneous  actions  of  this  un- 
civilized child.  All  things  in  heaven  and  earth  she  seemed 
to  be  sensitive  to.  "  See,"  she  would  say,  "  where  the 
storms  have  broken  the  branches;  and  they  bleed  some. 
Do   you   think   it  hurts   them?" 

Grace  asked  her  how  it  was  that  she  knew  how  to 
write,   and  yet   could   not   read. 

"  Oh,  I  can  read ;  but  he  does  not  wish  it.  I  write  as 
much  as  I  please,  and  I  have  a  great  many  books  of  my 
own  which  1  have  made.  1  have  bound  them  with  pieces 
of  bark,  and  they  are  fragrant  with  the  yarrow  and  spice 
leaves  which  I  lay  in  them.  Here  we  are  at  my  cascade ; 
see  how  it  dashes  against  the  rocks.  Do  you  think  it  is 
angry?  I  think  it  is  in  fun;  but  I  should  not  like  to  be 
the  rocks.  Think  of  being  washed,  and  having  water 
thrown  on  you  always  !  This  is  the  best  place  to  see  it," 
said  she,  standing  upon   a  tree  which  lay  across  the  stream. 


COTTAGE     LIFE  107 

"Go  on!  go  on!"  said  Grace,  who  trembled  lest  she 
should  fall.      "  My  dear  child,  I  cannot  cross  that." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Julia,  returning;  "it  is  quite  strong  and 
firm." 

"  Yes,"  said  Grace  to  herself,  "  but  /  am  not."  JuUa 
held  out  her  hand  to  her,  and  as  it  was  but  two  or  three 
steps,  she  overcame  her  reluctance,  and  stepped  across. 

"  Here,"  said  Julia,  as  they  reached  an  angle  of  the  rocks, 
•'is  the  greatest  view." 

Grace  admired  and  enjoyed  in  silence. 

"  See,"  said  Julia,  "  how  calmly  the  river  flows  through 
:he  plains,  under  the  trees,  and  by  the  side  of  the  little 
)hurches,  and  houses;  and  away  on  the  other  side,  see  how 
far  it  is,  —  quite  to  the  blue.  The  great  Camel  mountain 
rests  himself  on  this  side;  —  see,  he  never  goes  anywhere. 
You  can  hear  the  noises  of  the  world  in  the  still  nights ;  — 
right  below  us,  the  smokes  curl  up  among  the  trees.  We 
know  that  some  men,  and,  perhaps,  children  and  women, 
are  there.  What  do  you  think  they  are  doing?"  she  asked 
of  Grace. 

"  All  about  us,"  she  continued,  "  the  rocks  and  trees  seem 
to  be  trying  to  get  above  one  another,  —  and  now  the 
shadows  are  1}  ing  down  in  the  ravines  and  hollows  ;  —  in 
the  morning,  they  have  misty  covers  on  them.  Look  up  — 
see — the  sun  shines  upon  the  high  points  of  the  rocks,  and 
the  clouds  hold  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains;  —  if  they  get 
blown  away,  they  are  lost.  Listen  to  the  birds !  in  the 
mornings  they  sing  the  most;  but  in  the  evenings  the 
sweetest. 

"  Do   you   sing?"    she   asked  Grace. 

"Sometimes  I  do,"  she  replied;  "but  won't  you  sing  for 
me  now?    We  can  sit  here,  on  these  rocks." 

"  Yes,"  said  Julia,  taking  hold  of  her  hand.     "  I  will  sing 


108  COTTAGES     AND 

for  you;  —  but  you  must  come  up  here  again,  and 
then  we  can  sing  together.  I  have  some  such  pretty 
duetts — sometimes  1  sing  one  part  —  sometimes  the  other. 
Listen — " 

She  stood  a  little  apart  from  Grace,  looking,  at  times,  at 
her,  and  sang  in  Italian,  a  kind  of  a  chaunt : 

Softly  her  breath  came,  slowly, 

Murmuring  words  of  love; 
Tender  her  eye  was,  holy, — 
Holy,  like  stars  above. — 

"  They  told  of  His*  burth  that  night, 
Silently  —  told  the  wise; 
Wonderful  voices  of  Ught, 

Saying,  '  He  cometh,  arise ! '  " 

Softly  her  breath  came,  slowly 

Whispering  her  last  sigh; 
Gazing  from  that  couch,  lowly, 
Up  to  the  stars  on  high.  — 

"And  now,  unto  me,  they  say, 
Trustfully  hither  come; 
E'en  as  they  followed  the  ray 

Which  pointed  to  them  His  home." 

Softer  her  voice  fell,  sweetly. 

Breathing  that  tender  theme; 
Softer  —  for   such  tones  meetly. 
Alone  might  tell  her  dream. — 

"  They  went  to  the  house  of  His  birth, 
Saying,  '  He  cometh  to  save ! ' 
I  to  His  still  house  of  earth, — 
His  star  hangs  now  o'er  my  grave." 

•  Christ's. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  lO'J 

Slower  her  breath  came,  faiutly, 

Miirmm'ing  now,  no  more; 
Smiling  —  the  holy  and  saintly 

Were  passing  —  her  dream  was  o'er. 

c.  p.  J. 


110  COTTAG  ES     A  N  n 


CHAPTER    XX. 

In  the  evening,  as  they  sat  together,  all  except  Julia,  Mr. 
Langton  said--"  It  is  rather  to  respond  to  the  friendly  in- 
terest you  have  often  manifested  toward  me,  than  to 
profit  you  or  myself,  that  I  consent  to  give  these  sketches 
of  an  artist's  life. 

"  I  will  read  you  a  part  of  a  long  letter,  which  I  received 
when  abroad,  from  a  gentleman  who  had  befriended  me. 
He  has  written  a  little  in  sport,  but  it  will  give  you,  bet- 
ter than  I  can   tell  it,   the  first  part  of  this  short  narration. 

"  I  was  standing  in  front  of  the  Post-office  of  a  village 
in  Connecticut,  where  two  or  three  of  the  idlers  of  the 
place  were  holding   a  morning  conference. 

'"So,"  says  one,  '  I  hear  you  're  goin'  to  lose  your  'pren- 
tice,  deacon?' 

'"Jack  aint  sick?  is  he?'  says   another. 

" '  No,  by  gosh  ! '    says  the  first ;  '  worse  than  that.' 

"'Deacon,'  says  he,  -you  might  a'  made  something  of 
that  boy,  but  had  ought  to  striped  his  hide  regular  every 
morning.' 

"'He's  no  great  loss  to  me,'  the  deacon  said.  'He 
never  made  but  one  pair  of  shoes  decent,  since  he  come 
with  me  —  not  that  he's  altogether  lazy,  neither  —  always 
thinking  of  something   else — kind  o'    mazy.' 

"  '  Here  comes  Jack,  now,'  said  the  first.  '  So  you  want 
to   go  to  town  to  be  a  gentleman,  and  live  without  work!' 

"  Yes,"   said   the  second,  "  mighty  fine  thing  to  run  away 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  HI 

from  your  mother  —  you  can  laze  and  she  can  beg,  I 
guess  ?  If  you  come  across  a  good  master,  tell  him,  with 
my  compliments,  that  your  back  will  be  the  better  for  a 
good   tannin'.' 

"It  struck  me  then,  and  after  observation  has  tended  to 
confirm  it,  that  the  Anglo-saxon  race  are  coarse  and  brutal. 
They  neglect  no  occasion  to  strike  an  animal,  to  taunt  a 
boy,  or  to  repeat  a  disagreeable  thing  to  an  acquaintance  ! 
Force   is   the  God  which   is  worshipped. 

"  I  walked  on  after  the  boy,  who  was,  I  should  think, 
about  sixteen  —  a  tall,  shambling  fellow,  for  one  of  his  age, 
with  a  pale  face.  A  tear  was  running  down  his  face  as  I 
came  up  with  him,  and  his  mouth  was  compressed.  He 
did  not  look  at  me;  but  upon  some  slight  expression  of 
regard,  burst  into  tears.  He  said  to  me  —  'this  kindness 
is  too  much  —  I  am  not  used  to  it.  But  do  you  suppose 
my  mother  will  beg?'  I  gradually  drew  from  him  his  cir- 
cumstances and  plans,  so  far  as  he  had  any.  The  sub- 
stance was  mainly  this — that  he  had  determined  to  be  an 
artist. 

"  I  suggested  that,  to  be  an  artist,  required  a  rare  com- 
bination of  qualities ;  and  that  it  was  a  question,  whether 
any  person  without  them,  should  venture  into  a  field  where 
it  is  success  or  nothing.  That  is,  I  endeavored  to  explain 
to  him  —  unless  he  felt  that  he  could  raise  and  elevate 
himself,  and  others — produce — originate — he  would  always 
be  uncertain  and  dissatisfied.  The  man  who  raises  pota- 
toes, or  makes  shoes,  if  he  does  his  work  well,  will  feel 
the   satisfaction   of  having   done    something  well. 

"'I  have  tried  to  make  shoes,'  he  said,  '  and  tried  hard. 
Whenever  I  thought  of  my  mother,  I  determined  to  do  as 
she  seemed  to  think  was  the  best  —  but  I  could  not  keep 
my  hands   from   pictures    and  books — and   I  neglected   and 


112  COTTAGES     AND 

forgot  my  work.  The  deacon  could  not  understand  it  — 
and  it  was  all  wrong.  I  suppose  it  would  be  better  if  1 
was  dead.  I  had  a  good  deal  of  hope  before  John  Basset 
taunted  me.' 

"  I  thought  he  was  yielding,  and  suggested  that  he  should 
return  with  me  —  that  I  would  befriend  him  with  the  dea- 
con, and   endeavor  to   put  matters  in  a  better  shape. 

"  *  No,'  he  said,  '  it 's  of  no  use.  I  '11  not  go  back,  that 's 
sure.  I  am  a  drag  on  my  mother — and  for  the  rest  of 
them  —  I   cannot  be  worse  off  than  I  was  there." 

"  He  did  not  know  how  strong  the  battle  of  life  might 
prove  to  him.  I  suggested  some  of  the  diliiculties  he  would 
have  to  struggle  against,  as  an  artist,  without  friends.  He 
said  — 

"'I   have  none  any  where.' 

"  Without  money  — 

" '  That  I  can  get  as   well   in  one  place  as  another.' 

"  Without  any  of  the  artist's  education  — 

"  '  This  1  hope  to  gain.' 

"  Seeing  that  he  was  decided,  I  said  no  more  to  deter  him. 
The  true  part  now  was  to  give  him  an  opportunity  to 
prove   himself,  to  himself. 

"  He  told  me  that  he  traced  back  his  love  for  pictures  — 
for  ho  had  but  little  more  then  —  to  his  sister.  She  was 
used  to  the  coloring  of  flowers,  and  some  small  womanly 
accomplishments.  Pleased  with  his  fondness,  she  had  given 
him  paper  and  such  hints  as  she  could ;  but  more  than 
all,  she  had  sympathy,  and  a  wish  that  he  should  '  be 
something.'  This  being  something,  his  mother  did  not  be- 
lieve in.  Not  to  be  hungry  and  cold  was  in  itself  a 
'being.'  1  gave  him  my  address  in  town,  and  told  him 
to  come  and  sec  ino  ;  that  perhaps  I  could  be  of  use 
to  him. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  113 

"Well  —  he  went  on  his  way — and  I  went  back  to  the 
village.  In  the  varietj^  of  my  own  occupations,  as  is  al- 
most always  the  case,  the  wants  of  others,  of  Jack  Lang- 
ton,  did  not  once  occur  to  me  —  or  if  at  all,  but  momen- 
tarily. He  did  not  come  to  my  house,  and  I  was  in  a  fair 
way  to  forget  him  altogether,  when  I  saw  him  one  day 
carrying  in  wood.  He  seemed  to  wish  to  keep  out  of  my 
way.  In  an  instant  I  remembered  the  boy,  and  took  him 
home.  He  said  that  he  had  found  no  encouragement — no 
opportunity  of  any  kind.  What  few  little  drawings  he  had 
seemed  to  excite  no  interest,  and  he  found  himself  glad  to 
do  '  chores'  to  keep  off  hunger  and  cold.  1  was  able  to 
get  him  into  a  painter's  rooms  —  for  I  cannot  call  him 
artist  —  and  there  he  continued   for  a   time. 

"  Here  these  notes  end,"  said  Mr.  Langton.  "I  remember 
well  the  walk  that  he  had  with  me  —  how  my  heart  gradu- 
ally sunk,  after  we  parted,  as  I  thought  of  the  difficulties 
which  lay  in  my  way.  But  youth  and  health  —  the  fine, 
clear  sunshine  —  gradually  reassured  me,  and  I  went  on 
more  hopefully.  It  is  not  worth  while  to  tire  you  with 
minuteness ;  however,  I  did  go  to  his  house,  but  did  not 
find  him.  Then  I  thought  it  was  likely  that  he  had  for- 
gotten all  about  it,  and  would  perhaps  put  me  ofi"  with 
words,   as  all  had   so  far. 

"  With  this  painter  I  worked  away,  grinding  colors,  and 
slowly  gaining  some  manual  practice.  When  I  went  there, 
I  was  in  a  kind  of  Elysian  world.  His  o^vn  pictures 
seemed  grand,  so  far  beyond  any  I  had  seen ;  but  he  had 
some  very  good  engravings,  and  these  soon  took  my  atten- 
tion. I  learned  from  them  that  he  was  a  laborious  artizan, 
and  my  regard  for  him  gradually  passed  away.  I  began 
to  paint  for  myself — to  imitate,  if  not  to  emulate,  what  I 
saw.  In  proportion  as  I  undervalued  my  master,  I  over- 
15 


J  1  1  COT  T  A  <i  K  S     AND 

valued    myself.     This  soon    made  disputes    between    us.   and 
we  parted. 

''  Despising  the  careful,  matter  of  fact  manner  of  this  man, 
I  determined  to  give  ;m/  genius  a  wide  field.  This,  I  was 
convinced,  was  the  secret  of  art.  I  spread  out  into  the  re- 
gions of  fancy  and  imagination.  Gods  and  angels,  men 
and  demons,  were  all  used  freely  to  convey  powerfully 
some  feeble  thought.  In  landscapes,  I  wished  to  work 
easily.  1  thought  I  saw  in  engravings  indications  of  effects 
which  were  produced  with  a  single  touch  —  and  this  I  at- 
tempted. I  believed  myself  capable  of  all  things  ;  that  art 
came  out  from  genius  —  not  study.  As  I  had  a  knack  at 
likenesses,  I  could  have  made,  in  a  very  short  time,  very 
good  progress  in  portrait  painting ;  but  this  I  neglected  as 
below  the  region  where  1  intended  to  fly.  I  contrived  to 
live  —  how,  I  cannot  now  see  —  for  I  value,d  my  pictures  at 
high  prices ;  and  I  do  not  remember  that  any  one,  excepting 
some  few  young  men  of  my  own  age,  ever  spoke  well  of 
them.  I  cursed  the  undescerning  public,  who  would  spend 
their  money  in  gay,  sign-board  pictures,  rather  than  en- 
courage "high"  art.  So  I  determined  upon  a  great  pic- 
ture, which  should  impress  the  world,  if  it  was  impressible. 
It  was  a  sublime  burlesque,  and  was  ridiculed  and  mocked. 
I  was  sulky,  and  then  reckless ;  grew  careless  in  every 
thing,  and  came  very  near  going  to  the  devil.  Then  I 
determined  that  the  stupid  and  unjust  public  should  have 
enough  of  it;  —  so  I  painted  gay  pictures,  full  of  colors. 
These  met  with  a  little  more  success.  I  suppose  they 
were  the  most  dreadful  of  daubs,  for  1  had ,  no  great 
opinion  of  them  myself.  But  as  the  public  did  not  seem  to 
be  cast  down  with  my  ridicule  of  their  want  of  taste,  I  was 
led    to    question   whether  there    was    not  a    possibility    that, 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  115 

some  how,  we  misunderstood  one  another,  —  if  not  to  doubt 
my  own  theories. 

'*  About  this  time  1  began  to  read,  and  I  remember  that, 
in  some  place,  I  met  with  this :  '  That,  if  we  except  Shak- 
speare,  no  lasting  impression  has  been  made  upon  the  world 
by  any  man  who  has  not  passed  a  large  part  of  his  life  in 
painful  study  of  books  and  men.  This  applies  to  poets, 
painters,  statesmen,  architects,  machinists,  —  to  all,  indeed, 
who  have  made  one  step  in  advance  of  the  world.' 

"  I  read  history,  and  here  I  gained  immensely.  As  far  as 
possible,  I  got  a  knowledge  of  manners,  dresses,  modes  of 
life,  of  different  peoples  and  times.  I  began  to  feel  the 
want  of  books,  of  pictures,  of  knowledge;  —  of  what  art  had 
done,  and  what  it  had  attempted.  All  libraries  that  1  had 
access  to  were  lamentably  deficient,  and  I  groped  slowly 
along.  M}"  pictures  now  .were  entirely  changed;  —  having 
begun  to  doubt  myself,  I  became  nervous  —  overworked,  and 
touched  and  retouched  every  thing,  until  it  became  feeble 
and  miserable.  About  this  time  I  was  in  distress  for  the 
means  of  living.  Health,  too,  had  been  neglected.  I 
doubted  myself — art  —  everything.  Very  unexpectedly,  one 
of  my  pictures  was  sold  for  some  twenty  dollars.  I  recollect 
it  well,  that  when  the  bookseller  told  me,  I  shivered  from 
head  to  foot  —  my  pulses  seemed  to  cease  for  an  instant. 
This  was  a  fortune  to  me,  and  gave  me  hope  again. 

'"An  artist  should  study  the  works  of  nature,  —  should 
lift  the  veil,  —  should  become  familiar  with  her  outward 
and  inward  operations,  —  should  practice  with  eye,  heart, 
and  hand.  Let  him  spend  a  year  among  trees,  rocks,  and 
fields;  —  let  him  study  particular  objects,  and  out  of  simple 
things  endeavor  to  make  complete  pictures;  —  let  him  un- 
derstand vegetable  physiology,  geology.  Let  him  observe 
the   motions   of    men    in    a    simple    state   of   life,  —  observe 


11(5  GOTTAGKS     AND 

carefully  how  mind  animates  matter,  —  how  the  apirit  of 
God  every  where  appears.  if  he  can  make  use  of  these 
in  art, —  reconstruct,  reproduce,  touch,  as  with  an  electric 
point,  the  soul  of  others,  —  he  is  an  artist.' 

•  These  remarks,  I  think,  had  a  considerable  influence  on 
the  course  which  I  now  took.  Several  of  my  pictures,  un- 
accountably, found  purchasers.  It  was  a  little  mysterious, 
and  left  me  perplexed ;  but  it  enabled  me  to  pay  what  few 
debts  1  had,  and  to  leave  the  city. 

''  I  walked  into  the  country  and  hired  myself  to  a  farmer, 
whose  appearance  seemed  good,  to  work  for  him  every  day 
until  dinner  time,  for  my  living.  The  afternoons  I  spent 
mostly  out  of  doors, —  in  making  sketches  of  inanimate 
nature,  at  first;  afterward  of  animals,  and  then  of  men: 
with  all  those,  I  took  great  pains.  I  tried  to  combine  the 
two  things  which  I  had  carried*  to  excess,  "  freedom  and 
accuracy."  I  took  some  interest  in  botany;  —  much  in  the 
changes  of  the  seasons,  of  the  weather,  and  of  the  varying 
forms  of  clouds.  Gradually  I  began  to  sec  the  secret  in- 
fluences of  light  and  shade  —  of  atmospheres,  and  to  practice 
upon   them. 

"  I  recovered  my  tone  of  body  and  mind,  made  some 
friends,  and  began  to  study  characters — to  observe  faces  — 
their  physiognomy.  It  became  a  pleasure  to  me  to  go  to 
the  country  church.  The  conscious  gallantries,  which  were 
most  certainly  awkward, — the  Sunday  coquetry,  —  the  little 
condescensions  of  the  '  well  to  do '  simple  piety  of  the 
true    and  earnest, —  all   pleased   and   interested    me. 

"  With  a  collection  of  sketches,  which  was  really  valuable 
to  a  young  artist,  I  returned  to  the  city  after  a  year's 
absence.  T  did  not  now  attempt  to  make  pictures  upon  a 
theory — neither  did  I  think  to  copy  the  colors  of  nature. 
Having     a    purpose    in    every     picture,    1   made    that    as 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  117 

expressive  and  true  as  my  own  conception  and  experience 
allowed  me,  and  endeavored,  as  far  as  possible,  to  reach 
'  style,'  —  the  *  universal,'  —  what  all  men  would  recognize, 
and  to  some  extent  value.  My  landscapes  (1  painted  only 
these)  sold  readily.  To  a  greater  or  less  extent,  the 
meaning  and  intention  which  I  had  was  understood.  But 
before  I  knew  it  I  had  run  into  a  '  manner''  of  painting, 
and  my  pictures  bore  a  general  resemblance,  in  composition 
and  handling,  which  was  plain  to  a  superficial  observer. 
I  was  no  way  satisfied.  'T  vi^as  at  this  period  that  I  saw 
a  Magdalen,  supposed  to  be  by  Guido; — the  recollection 
of  it  is  very  distinct,  even  now.  It  first  suggested  to  me 
what  was  possible  in  a  picture  —  the  presentation  of  an 
individual,  clear  and  distinct,  yet  clothed  with  the  universal 
character  of  humanity. 

"  I  began  to  think  of  the  Italian  schools  of  art,  —  to 
believe  that  no  excellence  could  be  gained  without  a  con- 
templation of  the  great  masters.  To  know  what  had  been 
done  was  now  a  necessity,  and  the  probability  that  my 
ideas,  which  I  fondly  believed  to  be  new,  and  the  true  end 
and  object  of  art,  were  really  but  the  alphabet,  —  that  I 
was  taking  my  own  ideas,  new  to  me,  as  new  to  all,  — 
w^hen,  in  fact,  they  were  upon  the  mere  threshold  of  art, 
was  an  incubus  which  I  could  not  shake  off".  These  feelings 
grew  upon  me,  and  weakened  my  energy,  —  preyed  upon 
my  spirits.  I  sat  in  my  room,  sometimes  for  an  entire  day, 
without  much  mental  or  bodily  effort.  There  was  need  of 
some  stimulus  —  an  alterative.  It  came  in  the  shape  of 
an  inclosure  of  a  thousand  dollars, —  requesting  me  to 
consider  it  as  a  loan,  to  be  repaid  when  called  for,  unthout 
interest  —  in  pictures,  or  as  it  pleased  me;  advising  that  T 
should  spend  some  time  abroad,  in  the  study  and  contem- 
plation of  art  and  artists. 


lis  cot'1'a(;hs    and 

"  1  set  about  preparing  lor  tins  undertaking,  and  inl'ornied 
myself,  as  far  as  possible,  as  to  what  I  was  to  see  and  to 
learn.  1  met  with  this  remark  in  one  of  the  works  I  con- 
sulted :  — 

" '  It  is  of  but  little  use  for  the  uninstructcd  to  contem- 
plate the  highest  style  in  works  of  art,  phihjsophy,  or 
mechanics ;  except,  that  it  may  excite  a  feeling  of  wonder, 
or  a  desire  to  know  more,  and  so  a  spirit  of  inquiry  be 
induced.  To  comprehend,  to  appreciate,  to  enjoy  such, 
the  man  must  have  educated  himself,  —  in  senses  and 
soul,  —  must  have  felt  in  some  degree  what  the  artist  did  — 
have  suffered  as  he  suffered,  and  risen  as  he  rose. 
Sometimes  the  sight  of  such  a  work  will  suddenly  chrys- 
talize  in  the  mind  what  was  until  then  formless  and 
undefined." 

"  The  most  ol"  three  years  1  spent  in  Italy,  and  in  this 
way.  1  visited  the  finest  collections,  and,  after  a  careful 
survey,  selected  what  seemed  to  me  the  highest.  I  com- 
pared these  again,  and  so  reduced  the  number  which  1 
believed  contained  the  essences  for  which  I  was  in  search. 
Upon  these  I  spent  my  time  —  not  in  copying  them  —  but 
cautiou.-ly,  carefully,  proceeding  with  an  analysis  of  the 
parts,  refi^rring  them  to  the  'idea,"  —  the  whole,  which  1 
believed  the  artist  to  have  conceived;  —  making  drawings 
of  the  different  parts,  so  as  to  understand  the  practice  of 
those  mep.  Coloring  I  did  not  attempt.  I  satisfied  myself 
that  no  copying  of  an  artist's  color  would  answer  a  pur- 
pose,—  this  must  come  from  each  mans  harmonious  sense. 
But  light,  and  shade,  and  tone,  —  to  these  I  gave  much 
attention  Tiie  earnestness  with  which  I  was  engaged  kept 
me  (if  nothing  else  would  have  done  it)  from  falling  into 
the  idle  ways  which  so  many  young  men  consider  artistic. 
I    found    it    the    easiest    thing    to    persuade    myself,    when    I 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  1  ly 

was  tempted  to  loiter  away  a  fine  day  on  the  hill?,  that  it 
was  in  the  pursuit  of  art;  but  I  could  not  so  easily  per- 
suade  myself  at   night   that   I   had   caught   it. 

"  In  the  Sistine  chapel,  I  met  and  talked  with  an  old 
man  who  seemed,  so  often  had  I  seen  him  there,  to  be  an 
habitue  of  the  place.      He  said  this  to  me:  — 

"'I  have  looked  at  art  in  all  its  forms,  —  have  com- 
pared it  with  the  teachings  and  life  of  Christ,  for  years. 
For  eighteen  centuries  this  life,  these  teachings,  have  been 
acting  upon  mankind;  yet  it  is  rare  to  find  a  man  formed 
by  them,  —  their  influence  is  but  faintly  traced  upon  nations. 
When  these  shall  have  molded,  to  a  greater  or  less  de- 
gree, each  man's  life,  art  will  appear  in  a  higher  form, — 
as  much  more  exalted  than  art  at  the  present  day,  as 
His   life   was    above   ours.' " 

After  a  pause,  in  which  Mr.  Langton  seemed  lost  in 
thought,  he  continued. 

"  It  was  near  the  time  of  my  leaving  Italy  that  I  married. 
Julia,  whom  j'ou  have  seen,  is  my  only  child:  with  her, 
after  a  few  years'  residence  in  two  of  our  large  cities,  I 
came  up  here.  The  poison  of  the  present  civilization,  I 
found,  was  creeping  into  her  veins,  as  well  as  into  my 
own."      (See   Plate    VIII.) 

"I  never  saw  such  a  perfect  little  child,"  said  Grace. 
"  She  told  me  that  you  did  not  wish  her  to  read  —  will  you 
tell  me  why?"  • 

"  Until  her  character  is  in  some  considerable  degree 
formed,  and  able  to  resist  the  approach  of  evil,  I  would 
not  expose  her  to  the  books  of  the  present  day,  so  many 
of  which  are  full  of  sophistry  and  affectation.  She  will 
come   up    more    slowly,  but  it  will   be   in   health." 

"  But,"  said  Grace,  "  she  will  be  exposed  to  the  temptations 


l.^O  COTTAGES     AND 

of  the  world  ;  and  if  ^lic  knows  notliing  of  them,  how  will 
she  protect  herself?" 

"She  does  know  ihem,"  he  said;  "1  have  endeavored 
to  mako  lirr  understand  evil  in  it  nakedness,  and  in  its 
robes  of  light.  In  all  ways  I  wish  that  she  shall  grow; 
and  her  own  purity  will  be  a  test,  which  even  now  would 
protect  her.  1  would  trust  her  perceptions  of  character 
much   sooner   than   my  own." 

"  I   hope,   then,"   said   Grace,  "  she   \Adll   like   me." 

"  Will  you  tell  me,"  asked  Ned,  "  if  you  have  ever 
learned  who  it  was  that  inclosed  you  the  money?  1 
would   like   to   take    the    man   by   the   hand." 

"Yes  —  1  knew  him  intimately,  and  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  he  kept  a  watch  upon  me  for  a  number  of 
years.  It  was  most  likely  he  who  purchased  some  of  my 
earlier  pictures,  when  I  was  about  to  give  way,  and  the 
extract  which  I  read  you  was  from  him.  He  never  exacted 
any  sacrifices,  as  a  show  of  gratitude,  —  never  patronized 
in  an  offensive  way,  —  took  no  merit  to  himself  for  what  I 
may  have  done.  In  the  morning  I  will  show  you  his  por- 
trait, which  I  persuaded  him  to  allow  me  to  make  lor  my 
own  use.  To-morrow,  if  you  will  walk  into  the  other 
room,   you   can   see    it." 


8. 


^^fdi/iritpd'(/ii^ 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  12I 


DESCRIPTION    OF    PLATE     VIII. 

SCALE SIXTEEN     FEET     TO     ONE    INCH. 

What  might  have  been  the  picture  room,  according 
to  the  story,  is  here  the  parlor, —  having  a  pleasant 
conservatory  connected  with  it,  by  double  doors,  one  of 
them   of  glass. 

It  win  be  easily  seen  that  this  wing  may  be  left 
oflf,  from  the  main  house,  without  destroying  its  com- 
pleteness. 

A  fire  place  may  be  made  in  the  small  room  con- 
nected with  the  dining  room,  or  a  stove  may  enter  the 
parlor  flue,  so  as  to  make  the  room  serve  the  purposes 
of  a  kitchen.  Every  one  will  rearrange  to  suit  his  own 
views. 

The  weather  boarding  is  six  to  eight  inch  flooring; 
batted  with  strips  one  and  a  half  inch  wide,  and  half 
an   inch   thick. 

Where  building  is  cheap,  it  will  cost  $1,400  ;  should 
not   cost   over   $1,800. 


16 


122  COT'l'AGKS     AND 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

In  the  morning,  after  breakfast,  they  went  to  look  at  the 
pictures  which  hung  in  what  would  have  been  the  parlor 
of  a  common  dwelling  house,  but  which  was  arranged 
with  screens  and  sky-lights  so  as  to  be  of  use  for  a  paint- 
ing room.  When  they  entered,  Mr.  Langton  was  standing 
by  the  window  with  Julia  in  his  arms ;  her  hand  was  laid 
upon  his  cheek.  He  placed  her  upon  the  floor,  and  as  he 
had  taken  his  breakfast  by  himself,  he  kissed  Grace  upon 
the  forehead,  and  putting  his  hand  around  her  (as  she  said, 
quite  in  a  cousinly  way),  showed  her  the  pictures  and 
curiosities. 

A  few  handsome  dresses,  weapons,  pipes,  and  other 
trifles  hung  upon  the  walls  with  the  pictures,  which  were 
but  few  in  number :  a  landscape  of  Gainsborough's  —  a 
small  picture  in  the  manner  of  Wouverman's — a  head  by 
one  of  the  Spanish  painters — two  magnificent  water  colors, 
one  of  Strasburg  Minster,  the  other  a  deep  eyed  girl  in 
armor,  sometimes  called  "  a  Joan  of  Arc" — also,  the  purest 
marble  head  of  a  cherub,  and  a  half-size  bronze  of  the 
present  day — an  Amazon,  whose  horse  is  attacked  by  a 
tiger.  In  these,  with  the  portrait  already  mentioned,  the 
"  collection,"  if  it  can  be  called  by  so  largo  a  name,  con- 
sisted. 

Grace  stood  long  before  the  girl  in  armor — and  was 
un\nlling  to  leave  the  picture.  Whilst  to  Ned,  the  pic- 
ture  of  the   "friend"    had  peculiar  attraction.      Every  time 


COTTAGK     LIFE.  l->3 

he  looked,  it  seemed  to  change  its  expression.  With  the 
mouth,  he  saw  a  firm,  perhaps  hard  man ;  but  then  the 
eyes  tempered  the  character  to  sweetness.  The  nostril 
was  a  little  distended,  but  the  forehead  was  as  calm  as 
a  still  lake  —  unmarked  by  a  wrinkle — though  in  the 
beard  and  hair  very  distinct  shades  of  gray  were  seen. 
The  complete  expression  of  the  head,  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  describe.  It  seemed  raised  and  elevated  above 
worldliness,  yet  entirely  sympathetic  and  susceptible  to  the 
smallest  wants  of  man,  or  influences  of  nature.  It  was 
one  of  those  works  of  art  which  you  do  not  at  first 
dream   of  criticising. 

In  the  conversation  which  grew  out  of  the  pictures,  Mr. 
Langton   said  — 

"  Almost  all  persons  point  out  the  real  or  fancied  defects 
of  these  works.  Now  I  know  very  well,  much  better  than 
they  do,  what  they  are ;  but  I  do  not  take  pleasure  in 
dwelling  upon  them.  A  work  of  art,  if  it  is  worth  criti- 
cising  at  all,   is    worth   it    because  of  its   beauties. 

This  seemed  to  Grace  a  very  agreeable  way  of  critici- 
sing, which,  however,  Uncle  John  said  would  be  more 
popular  with  the   artist   than   the   public. 

"For,"  said  he,  ''it  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  us  to  think 
that  these  men,  whose  names  we  spread  abroad  in  the 
newspapers,  are  great  simpletons,  after  all ;  which  it  re- 
quired our  critical  acumen  to  discover  —  and  yet  their 
errors  are  so  plain  that  it  is  strange  that  every  one 
should   not   have  seen  them  at   once  !  " 

After  an  hour  spent  among  the  pictures,  they  set  about 
the  necessary  preparations  for  departure.  Mr.  Langton  in- 
sisted that  they  would  leave  in  better  heart  after  a  sar- 
dine and  a  biscuit,  with  a  glass  of  wine  —  of  which  there 
could   be   no  question. 


]  .^4  <-■  ( J  T  ']■  A  G  E  S     AMD 

They  parted,  mutually  plearscd,  and  as  they  rode  slowly 
down  the  mountain,  Grace  said  — "  I  think,  above  all  the 
rest,  I  am  the  most  interested  in  the  little  JuUa — and  1 
hardly  know  what  to    think   of  her." 

Ned  expressed  his  admiration  for  Mr.  Langton,  and  was 
greatly  struck  with  his  apparently  complete  knowledge  of 
the  world    and   men,   united  with  great  simplicity. 

"  Possibly,"  said  Grace,  "  you  have  a  fellow  feeling  for 
this  simplicity,  which  some  persons  might  call  by  a  harder 
name.  For  myself,  I  was  somewhat  mystified  with  his 
simplicity.     How  is  it,   Uncle  John  ?  " 

Uncle   John   said   in    reply  — 

"Mr.  Langton's  life  has  nearly  completed  the  circle  — 
which  indeed,  to  some  degree  ( more  or  less  perfect ),  takes 
place  in  all  things.  He  has  gone  from  the  simplicity  and 
faith  of  childhood,  which  is  instinctive,  through  doubt  and 
denial ;  has  passed  the  lands  of  the  Philistines ;  and  now 
has  reached  the  promised  land — at  least,  looks  upon  it. 
He  believes,  and  acts  upon  his  beliefs  —  pretending  to  no- 
thing more — has  that  simplicity  which  comes  out  of  rea- 
son—  out  of  experience.  The  man  who  cannot  reach  these 
through  the  trials  and  temptations  of  the  world,  only  half 
lives  here,  whatever  he  may  arrive  at  in  another  state  of 
existence.  With  the  outward  revelation,  there  must  be, 
also,   an   inward    one,  which  is   as  complete    as   the  other." 

"  I  want  to  know,"  said  Grace,  "  what  you  think,  Uncle 
.John,  of  the  little  Julia?  Do  you  think  well  of  that  way 
of  education  ?  " 

"It  is  out  of  the  common  experience,"  he  said,  "and 
most  likely  has  advantages.  1  should  think  that  when 
she  conies  to  mingle  with  the  world,  she  will  be  so  unac- 
custometl  to  the  self-  seeking,  and  imperfections  of  those 
whom    she    meets,    that    she    will     become    impatient  —  will 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  125 

be  likely  to  return  upon  herself,  and  grow  cold  and  un- 
sympathetic ;  unless  she  has  capacity  to  learn  and  under- 
stand  quickly." 

"  That,  I   am   sure   she    has,"    said  Grace. 

*'  But  see,"  said  Ned,  "  how  the  storm  of  yesterday  has 
strewed  the  road  with  branches ;  and  good,  stout  rocks 
have  come  down.  It  would  not  have  been  pleasant,  after 
all,   to   have  been  exposed   in  this   place." 

"  I  might  have  had  something  beside  a  wetting,  Ned," 
said   Grace,   "  if  I  had  not  ridden   as   fast   as  I   did?" 

"Possibly"  —  he  replied  —  "and  as  I  shall  not  hear  the 
last  of  my  advice  soon,  it  is  a  pity  you  did  not  have  an 
escape  —  something  to  make  an  incident  of.  Suppose  now, 
as  with  some  of  Cooper's  heroines,  a  tree  had  fallen  and 
swept   off  your  bonnet  ?  " 

"  And  your  horse's  tail,  Ned  —  but  that  would  have  been 
really  serious  —  considering  how  little   there   is  of  it." 

"  Do  you  make  an  unkind  cut  at  the  brevity  of  my 
horse's  tail?"  asked  Ned.  "Consider  that  it  is  the  soul 
of  wit,   even  of  yours — are  you  answered?" 

"Not  silenced,"  said  Grace — "I'll  have  the  last  word, 
if  I  die  for  it.  It  is  but  a  horse-tail  and  should  be  given 
to  the  wind — as  it  fared  with  those  of  the  Pachas. 
They  loosed  their  horse-tails  to  the  wind  —  and  this 
reminds  me,  as  Mrs.  Nickleby  would  say,  that  it  is  a 
great   pity  more   tales  are  not   lost   in   the  same  way." 

"Between  you,"  said  Uncle  John,  "you  are  like  to 
make  as  bad  work  of  it  as  the  Kilkenny  cats  did  —  tails 
will  be  all  there  is  left.  Ned,  you  had  better  follow  the 
example  of  the  'moon,' — which  you  remember  '■'■took  up 
its   wondrous   tale"  —  and   move  on  a   little   more  quickly." 

"  En   avant,"  said   Ned. 

"Not  so,"    said  Grace,  dashing   past  him — "follow  me!''' 


l-2(j  G(VrT  AGES     AND 

"What  the  devil  has  got  into  them?"  said  Uncle  .John 
to  himself.  "There  they  go  —  there  "11  be  mischief — we 
shall  have  a  'tale  of  blood'  in  the  end  —  out  of  this.' 
Tom  never  would  forgive  me,  if  any  thing  should  happen 
to  either  of  them.  I  should  not  forgive  myself,  for  that 
matter, "  said  he  as  he  galloped  slowly  along.  After 
riding  a  mile,  thinking  it  more  than  likely  that  Grace's 
horse  had  become  unmanageable,  he  came  upon  them,  dis- 
mounted under  a  broad  oak  tree  —  and  with  them  found 
'  one  of  our  traveling  tin-box  traders,  called  pedlars.  Grace 
was  rigged  out  in  a  multitude  of  glass  beads  and  horn 
combs,  while  Ned  was  crowned  with  a  buff  cap,  and  had 
tied  a   red    cravat   around  each   leg. 

"  Stand  back  ! "  said  he,  as  Uncle  John  came  up.  "  Shall 
dung-hill    curs  confront  the    Helicons  !  " 

"  Stop,  Ned,"  said  Grace,  "  let  the  warder  sound  a  blast. 
Now  let   the  slave   enter !  " 

"  Foul  catiff,"  said  Ned,  "what  would  you  in  the  presence 
of  royalty  ?  do  you  presume  to  wear  a  horse,  too  !  — 
Know,   that  the   eyes   of  kings   kill." 

"  What  would  you,  common  person  ? "  said  Grace,  in  a 
small  voice,  quite  in  the  style  of  the  delicate  queens  of 
savage  kings.  "The  quality  of  our  justice  is  n't  strained; 
but  I  pledge  you  a  woi'd  wliich  was  never  broken,  that 
you   shall   be  heard." 

"If  you  speak  loud,"    said    Xed. 

"  I  speak,"  said  Uncle  .John,  "  but  I  tremble.  1  seek,  oii 
magnificent  vicc-gerenta,    my  two  lost  children." 

"  Did  you  not  abandon  them  in  a  wood,  like  a  perfidious 
undc,  so  that  you  could  get  their  money  f "  said  Ned, 
bending  his    brows.. 

"  Speak,"  said  Grace,  "  we  will  try  to  hear  you ;  but  in 
truth    you    have  the    look  of  a  '  perfidious  uncle.' 


C  0  T  T  AGE     1.  I  K  E  1  -.ll 

"Beautiful  princess  —  they  left  //«,''  said  he,  "alone  — in 
my  old    age — a  prey    to   unavailing  regrets." 

"  We  fear  greatly ,""  said  the  (jueen,  "  that  you  have  been 
bad.  There  is  yellow  in  your  eyes.  Question  him  further, 
most  sublime    majesty." 

"  We  know,"  said  the  king,  "  that  you  left  l/um  in  the 
wood  —  left  them  far  in  advance  of  you  —  that  you  allowed 
yourself  to  sink  into  a  lethargy  —  a  vile  lethargy.  Our 
divine  instincts  are  good  —  we  always  follow  them.  A 
voice  Mithin  us  cries  that  you  have  done  this  !  also,  that 
we  are  very  hungry  —  also,  that  you  have  some  money 
with  you.  We  can  restore  your  children  only  upon  con- 
dition that  you  give  it  all  up  to  us.  Being  an  uucle  —  a 
perfidious  uncle  —  you  must   expect    to  suffer." 

"  I  do,"  said  he,  calling  the  pedlar  to  him.  '•  How  much 
damage  have  i/ou  suffered  from  these  young — ^very  young 
persons  ?  " 

The  amount  being  made  up,  the  pedlar  refusing  to  take 
back  the  handkerchiefs,  they  rode  on, —  leaving  him  with 
his  mouth,  as  well  as  his  eyes,  open,  in  the  excitement 
of  wonder;  —  such  wares  had  not  come  in  his  way  before. 

"  Confess,  uncle,"  said  Grace,  "  that  you  have  heard  some 
wholesome  truths,  w^iich  will  last  you  for  life." 

"  Wholesale  falsehoods,  Gracie ;  after  which  I  ti'ust  I 
may    '  die    soon,'    which   would    be   goot." 

"  How  —  good  ?  "    asked    Grace. 

"Mr.  Delluc,  a  Frenchman,  in  the  city,"  said  I'ncle  John, 
"used  very  often  to  come  and  talk  with  me;  —  sometimes 
about  dying,  of  which  he  had  a  mortal's  fear.  '  1  like  to 
die  soon,'  he  said  one  day,  —  'no  wait  and  wait — and 
sick  and  sick.  My  father  he  take  his  pipe  in  his  mout 
one  morning,  and  go  into  the  garden  and  he  die  dare  — 
die   soon;    dat    was   goot.''' 


128  COTTAGES     AND 

"  And  1  "Jl  tell  you,'  said  A^ed,  "  a  story  about  a  man 
who  did  not  die,  but  whose  brother  did.  Now  this  brother 
left  him  a  good  deal  of  property,  but  in  various  forms, — 
so  that  he  liad  courts,  and  accounts,  and  business  of  one 
kind  and  another  to  trouble  him,  until  he  quite  lost  his 
patience  one  day,  and  said  to  me,  "  I  declare  this  pro- 
perty gives  me  a  deal  of  trouble,  and  sometimes  —  I  almost 
wish  my  brother  had  n't  have  died." 

"  And  I  "11  toll  you  one,"  said  Grace,  "  of  a  French  gen- 
tleman, who,  coming  in  with  a  sad  visage,  was  asked,  what 
was  the  matter?  'Why,'  sa  he,  'my  fader  —  he  die  dis 
morning,  and   I    am   very  —  dissatisfy!'" 

"  Well,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  we  had  better  push  along  a 
little  more  briskly;  we  shall  not  reach  our  tavern  until 
late." 

"Tavern!"  said  Grace,  "are  we  to  stop  at  a  tavern  — 
a   country  tavern?" 

"A   demnition   low   place?"    lisped  Ned. 

"  Suppose,  Grace,"  replied  her  uncle,  "  we  call  it  a 
'  hostel,'  and  we,  being  '  knights  and  ladies,'  ride  up  toward 
the  close  of  the  day,  and  halloo  and  bawl,  for  the  '  house  ' 
to  come  and  take  our  horses,  —  that  would  be  perfectly 
satisfactory;    so  like  what  it  was    in    the    good,  old  times." 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  I  've  no  doubt,  being  a  woman,  that 
I  am  wrong,  and  this  will  be  the  most  charming  retreat 
in    the  world,  —  all  buttermilk  and  lavender  —  and  whisky." 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  Uncle  John,  as,  turning  the  point  of 
a  hill,  the  swinging  sign,  standing  at  the  head  of  a  street 
of  houses,  indicated  it.  "  Such  as  it  is,  I  commend  it  to 
you." 

The  landlord,  who  was  sitting  upon  a  bench  under  the 
piazza,  slowly  got  up,  as  they  stopped,  and  came  toward 
them,  pushing  his  spectacles  under  his  hat. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  129 

"  Why,  who  'd  a  thought  o'  seeing  you  here ! "  he  said,  as 
he  shook  Uncle  John  by  the  hand. 

"What  —  aint  you  dead  yet?"   said  Uncle  John,  in  reply. 

"Got  your  wife  and  son  with  you,  I  s'pose?"  helping 
Grace  to  alight.  "Dead?  no — just  beginning  to  pick  up. 
I  should  n't  wonder  if  I  was  to  get  a  young  wife  myself." 

"Though  you  have  one  not  young  now?"  said  Uncle 
John. 

"True,  I  fopgot  that.  Well,  come  in,  —  come  in.  Here, 
Bob,   take   the   horses." 

He  showed  Grace  up  stairs  himself,  although  she  had 
seen  the  anxious  faces  of  two  women  prying  at  her  from 
behind  a  curtain.  She  was  really  pleased  with  the  neat- 
ness and  comfort.  From  her  windows  she  could  see  the 
winding  and  dashings  of  the  small  stream,  and,  far  off, 
farms  and  cultivation.  She  found,  when  she  wanted  it, 
that  there  was  no  water;  and,  opening  a  back  door  of 
her  room,  she  asked  a  girl  whom  she  saw  there  if  she 
could  bring  her   some. 

"I  s'pose  so,"  she  said;  "but  I  should  think  there  was 
the  spring ! "  And  as  she  went  flying  down  stairs,  Grace 
could  hear  her  saying,  —  half  to  herself  and  half  to  her, — 
"  Jim  Miller  says,  time  and  time  again,  that  all  men  is 
born  free  and  equal,  except  the  niggers,  —  and  certain,  I 'd 
as   lives   be   a   nigger   as   stay  here." 

As  she  returned,  she  halted  at  each  door  to  assert  to 
herself  the  dignity  of  her  birth,  and  at  last  swashed  down 
a  bowl   of  water  by  Grace's   door. 

"Bless  me!"  thought  Grace,  "these  people  have  the 
virtue  of  neatness,  but  it  is  not  united  with  an}'-  wish  to 
make  other  folks  comfortable."  So,  hunting  in  her  port- 
manteau, she  found  a  handkerchief  upon  which  she  dried 
her  face  and  hands. 
17 


\:\0  COTTAGES     AND 

In  the  evening,  she  suggested  to  Ned  that  they  should 
take   a  \valk,   as   Uncle   John  hail    some    inquiries    to   make. 

"By  the  banks  of  Lugar's  murmuring  stream?  —  a  little 
disposed   to   be    sentimental,   I    fear." 

"  No,"  said  Grace,  "  not  that ;    sentiment  is  not  in  vogue." 

"Confessed  sentiment  is  not;  call  a  woman  by  some 
soft  name,  and  she  will  laugh  in  your  face,"  said  Ned. 
"  But  let  her  suppose  that  she  has  a  restraining  influence 
upon  you,  —  confuse  her  a  little  with  words  about  destiny, — 
compliment  her,  but  laugh  at  it  Jirst  yourself, —  and,  trust 
me,  you  are   successful." 

"  Why,  Ned,"  said  Grace,  "  do  you  practice  this  upon 
me?  Sentiment  and  poetry  are  rather  soft  food  for  a 
hungry  people.  But  there  are  times  when  I  feel  that 
there  will  yet  be  better  poetry  than  has  ever  been  writ- 
ten;—  even  than  Shakspeare's  !  Exery  body  writes  poetry  — 
women  do  n't  seem  to  do  much  beside." 

"Yes,"  said  Ned,  "but  perhaps  all  this  is  pavement  for 
the  golden  chariot  of  the  great  poet  whom  you  expect  to 
come  out  of   the   clouds." 

"  I  do  n't  expect  to  be  laughed  at  Ned,  now,  if  I  do 
talk   nonsense;    but   this   is   not    nonsense." 

In  this  and  other  talk  an  hour  slipped  quickly  by,  for 
in  the  moonlight,  with  kind  hearts,  and  youth,  the  swift 
footed   time   passes   noiselessly. 

Uncle  John  learned  from  Brintnall,  the  landlord,  that 
good  trout  still  swam  in  the  brook ;  that  good  "  cock " 
still  fed  in  the  marshes.  "Though,  to  tell  the  truth,"  said 
he,  "I  don't  go  out  much.  I've  'slaved  and  slaved' 
here   for   so   many   years,   that   now   I   must   rest." 

In  fact,  Brintnall  had  never  in  his  life  gone  out  of  a 
slow    and   peaceful   walk,  except  at  ^uch   times   as   he  was 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  131 

anxious   to   get  up   to   the   dogs,  who    were    standing    upon 
a   woodcock  or   a   snipe. 

Uncle  John  ascertained  what  he  wished  to  know  of 
the  small  piece  of  land  lying  near  there,  which  he  went 
to  survey  the  next  morning,  and  then  listened  to  the  talk 
of  those  who  had  collected  about  the  door  in  the  eve- 
ning,  which   turned   mostly    upon   politics. 

Says  one,  "There  's  too  many  taxes,  —  taxes  for  every 
thing  —  schools,  roads,  churches.  In  my  opinion,  the  can- 
didate  'had   ought'   to   be  pledged   to   go    against  taxes." 

Says  another,  "  You  '11  have  to  break  up  this  bankin' 
system.  It  's  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  hard  times  ( the 
speaker  was  quite  young ) ;  before  the  bankin'  system  came 
up,  you   never   heard   of  hard   times." 

A  third,  "  No,  there  's  too  much  bad  governin'.  The 
rulin'  's  all  in  the  hands  of  the  democrats,  —  they  and  the 
law}'-ers   has   every    thing." 

"  Well,"  says  another,  "  I  go  for  liberty,  by  George. 
Let  every  man  do  as  he  's  a  mind  to,  and  you  '11  have 
no  complaint." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  one,  "  folks  do  too  much  as  they  're  a 
mind  now.  Let  the  ignorant  come  in  and  vote,  and  you  '11 
see  a  fuss.  No,  the  only  sure  way  to  make  every  thing 
go  right,  is   to   reduce  the  voters." 

(In  reply.)  "'Liberty,'  /  say,  liberty, —  give  a  man  lib- 
erty,  and   you   give   him   every  thing." 

"  So,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  you  are  a  thorough  -  going 
libertine  ?  " 

"  Yes,  by  George,  that 's  what  I  am,  and  that 's  what  I 
will  be." 

The  landlord  whispered  to  Uncle  John,  "  there  aint  one 
of  these  fellows  that  half  does  what  he  undertakes ;  yet 
they  think,  if  they  could  have   more   banks,  or  less   taxes. 


i;jo  COTTAGES     AND 

or  suiaclliuig,  every  thing  would  be  as  soft  as  silk,  and  as 
smooth   as   oil." 

Some   one    asked,   "Who    was   to   be  the   candidate?" 

Another  says,  "Old  Derwent, —  if  there's  any  thing  in 
managin'   and   money." 

"  Every  thing   in   it,"    said    Uncle  John. 

"  Well,"  said  Brintnall,  "  if  it  's  to  vote  for  such  fellows 
as  that,  I  do  n't  care  how  soon  my  vote  is  taken  away ; 
for   I    sha'  n't  use   it." 

"Every  man's  duty  to  vote,"  said  the  yonvg  man;  "keep 
the  ballot  box  pure,  and  everything  's  safe.  It 's  a  pri- 
vilege  that  the   'British'    don't    enjoy." 

"  Get  old  Derwent  into  the  ballot  box,  and  it  '11  be 
damn'd   pure,"    said   another. 

And   so   it   went   on. 


""''^//..^/^^^^uf 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  133 


DESCRIPTION    OF    PLATE    IX. 

The  general  design  of  tliis  house  was  taken  from  Mr. 
Tudor's,  at  Nahant,  some  years  since.  Whether  or  not 
it  bears  a  close  resemblance,  I  cannot  now  recollect. 
It  is  bnilt  of  stone,  and  the  roofs  have  a  very  rich 
effect,   from   being  covered   with   strips   of   bark. 

The  internal  arrangement  is  not  at  all  based  upon  Mr. 
Tudor's,  though  it  may  resemble  it.  The  passageway 
leading  to  the  small  bed  room  on  the  left  may  be 
dispensed  with,  if  prefeiTed ;  which  will  make  the  bed- 
room ( now  fourteen  feet  by  twelve )  fourteen  by  fif- 
teen feet  six  inches.  The  small  bed  room,  then  might 
be  entered  from  the  piazza;  or  be  used  as  a  dressing 
or   children's   room. 

A  private  stairway  may  be  made,  if  deshed,  by  tak- 
ing up  a  part  of  what,  in  this  plan,  is  used  for  the 
store  room. 

Three  bed  rooms  can  be  made  under  the  roof,  letting 
them  run  into  the  windows,  which  should  be  made  broad 
and  large,  say,  five  or  six  feet  wide.  This  gives  a 
ceilmg,  below,  of  twelve  feet,  and,  above,  of  eight  feet. 
In  aU  cases  where  the  rooms  run  into  the  roof,  an 
arrangement  for  the  ventilation  above  the  ceiling  should 
be  provided.  The  lower  rooms  being  so  much  shaded, 
it  is  desirable  to  make  the  windows,  say,  four  feet  broad. 

Estimate,  of  wood  (in  each  plan),  ^2,200. 


ly.j,  C0TTAGE6     AND 


CHAPTER    XXli. 

"Now,  Grace,"  said  Uncle  John,  as  they  mounted  their 
horses  in  the  morning,  "a  good  ride  to-day  will  bring  us, 
toward  night,  to  the  camp  ground.  We  can  spend  the 
evening   there,  and  that  will   be    over  with." 

"I  have  a  great  curiosity,"  she  answered,  "to  be  present; 
but  really  I  do    feel    as   though  we   might   be  intruders." 

"  Compared  with  some  who  go  as  lookers  on,"  said  Ned, 
"  we  are  angels." 

"  And  it 's  their  intention,  I  suppose,  to  take  us  una- 
wares ?" 

"  Why,  if  no  wicked  people  went,  I  suppose  that  one 
great  end  would  be  lost.  It  would  be  no  object  to  make 
a  pow-wow  over   the   souls  of  the  good." 

We  will  pass  over  the  day's  ride,  which  contained  no 
particular  matter  of  interest. 

The  moon  did  not  rise  until  late,  so  darkness  was  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth,  as  they  came  near  to  the  camp 
ground.  They  had  passed  and  been  passed  by  all  sorts  of 
foot  passengers,  and  all  sorts  of  vehicles,  the  numbers  of 
which  increased  as  they  approached.  Occasionally  a  loud 
whoop,  or  yell,  from  some  load  of  boys  and  water  melons, 
startled  both  Grace  and  her  horse,  and  she  began  to  sus- 
pect that  she  might  be  paying  dear  for  her  curiosity. 
Through  the  trees,  now,  she  could  see  the  glimmering 
of  the  light,  and  could  hear  the  hum  —  the  sound  which 
rises  like  a  mist  from  a  great  multitude  ;   and  above  it,  she 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  135 

could   hear   the   blowing   of  the   horns,  which  she   was  told 
was   the  signal   for  beginning. 

On  every  hand,  articles  for  sale  were  exposed  —  mostly 
such  as  could  be  eaten  and  drunk.  Good  humored  parties 
were  about,  and  many  couples  strolled  among  the  high  and 
leafy  trees  —  some,  no  doubt,  in  the  incipient  stages  of 
flirtation  —  some,  more  advanced;  all  around  lay  the  dim 
wood ;  and  the  lights  were  fitful,  the  senses  impressed, 
the  imagination  excited.  They  left  their  horses  and 
w^alked  into  the  inclosure  formed  by  the  board  tents ; — 
there,  a  large  audience  were  attentive  to  a  man  whose 
weak  voice  and  person  did  not  indicate  the  strength  that 
lay  in  him.  As  his  words  rose,  and  his  gestures  became 
impassioned,  he  poured  out  his  "stream  of  exhortation," 
and  the  listeners  answered  him  with  loud  and  fervent 
shouts.  When  he  sat  down,  the  prayer  began  in  a  low 
voice  —  it  began  with  the  earnest  tones  of  abject  contri- 
tion, or  of  stirring  sympathy  —  it  displayed  the  convicted 
sinner — the  speaker  tore  open  his  own  heart,  and  his 
voice   exhausted  itself  in  the  loud  sympathy  of  his  listeners. 

"Let 's  go  away,"  said  Grace,  taking  hold  of  Uncle  John; 
but  one  of  the  voices  said,  "  sing,"  and  a  hundred  others 
joined  him  in  swelling  the  volume  of  praise.  The  clear 
tones  of  the  exhorter  followed — inviting,  encouraging,  em- 
boldening all  to  enter — warning  the  uncertain,  sustaining 
the  weak — and  thus,  bowed  to  the  earth,  the  penitent  — 
the  imprisoned  spirits — in  sighs,  groans,  hysterical  shrieks, 
mingled  with  the  prayers,  the  hymns,  the  stirring  tones  of 
the   declaimer  —  struggled   to   be   free. 

Ned  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes  when  he  saw,  as 
earnest  as  any,  Jim  Haskill.  Once  in  every  year  he  gave 
himself  up  to  these  influences.  He  heard  him  say  to  a 
gray-headed  man,  wiping  his  eyes  —  "Jesus  is  good.     Some- 


l:U]  COTTAGES     AND 

times  1  forget  it;  but  it  comes  on  to  me  stronger  again. 
Glory  !  how  I  love  the  Lord.  If  you  'd  read  the  bible,  and 
see  what  good  things  there  is  all  over,  in  the  rivers  and 
in  the  woods,  you  'd  think  as  I  do."  If  such  a  spirit  as 
his  was  thus  worked  upon  —  the  sufferings  of  weak  nerves 
and  strong  imaginations  can  be  supposed.  Later  in  the 
night,  the  meetings  were  held  by  small  numbers  in  sepa- 
rate inclosures.  In  these,  the  exhibitions  were  sometimes 
frightful. 

These  scenes  had  been  very  impressive  to  Grace,  who 
had  never  seen  any  thing  like  it.  The  moon  poured  a 
flood  of  light  over  the  tall  maples,  as  they  prepared  to 
leave  for  their  quarters.  Quite  unexpectedly  they  came 
upon  Harry  Derwent,  in  close  conversation  with  a  young 
woman.      She  walked    quickly   away,  and   he  joined   them. 

"  Delightful   evening,  Miss  Ellison  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  Grace  answered,  "  but  I  am  so  fright- 
ened that  I  am  not  sure.  But  do  you,  so  gallant  a  man, 
allow   the  lady  to  walk   about   here    alone?" 

"Oh,  it's  quite  safe — particularly  for  persons  of  posi- 
tion.     She  's  of  one  of  the  first  families." 

"Of  Virginia,  I  suppose?"  Ned    added. 

"  She  has  very  much  the  look  and  air  of  Ilaskill's 
daughter,"  said  Uncle  John. 

Perhaps,  if  it  had  been  daylight,  some  little  confusion 
might  have  been  seen  in  Mr.  Derwent's  handsome  face. 
But  he    added  — 

"She's  taller  and    more  stylish — bolder," 

"  This  last  is  one  of  the  attributes,  I  believe,  of  the  first 
families?"  suggested  Ned. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Mr.  Derwent  said,  not  noticing  the  slight  dry- 
ness. "  There  is  a  certain  something  which  always  dis- 
tinguishes them." 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  137 

"  But  your  mother  is  here,  I  suppose  ? "  inquired  Uncle 
John.  He  had  seen  her  among  the  most  devoted,  soon 
after  his   arrival. 

"No  —  oh,  no,   sir  —  she   does  not   frequent  such   places." 

Why  she  did  not  "  frequent  such  places,"  remains  a 
mystery  to  this  day,  unless  she  belonged  to  one  of  the 
second  families,  and  was  therefore  not  admissible.  Uncle 
John  had  had  suspicions  of  Mr.  Derwent — had  never 
shown  any  disposition  to  meet  his  advances  ;  and  he  was 
now  sure  of  his  having  perpetrated  one  unnecessary  and 
poor  lie  —  and   he   suspected   him  of  more  than   that. 

They  separated — one  party  to  reach  their  lodgings  — 
and  Derwent,  no  doubt,  to  meet  some  high-toned  lady. 
One  thing,  however,  is  certain;  that  night  he  stole  away 
the  handsome,   and  half-witted  Bessy. 


18 


138  COTTAGES     AND 


CHAPTER    XXIII 


f 


The  next  morning,  having  ridden  for  some  way  in  silence, 
Ned,  whose  thoughts  had  been  running  upon  the  camp- 
meeting,   said  rather  suddenly  — 

"  Uncle   John  —  what   do  you  think   of  reUgion  ?  " 

He  laughed. 

"You  might  as  well  ask  me  what  I  think  of  mankind? 
If  I  were  to  make  an  answer  as  short  as  your  question, 
1  should  say — not   much!" 

"Well,  you  have  heretofore?     Were  you  ever  religious?" 

"  Why,  Ned,   this   is  presuming  that   I  am   not  now. " 

"  You   never  speak   of  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  necessary.  If  a  man  has  any  religion  he  can 
act  it,   and  be   quiet." 

"It  may  be  called  a  universal  rule,"  continued  Uncle 
John,  "  that  the  more  noise  a  man  makes  about  it,  the 
less  he  has  of  it.  There  is  a  wordy,  windy  set  of  folks, 
who  need  to  be  put  to  death.  Their  bellys  are  full  with 
shucks  —  they  are  invulnerable  to  any  thing  but  hanging, 
and  capital  punishment  ought  to  be  reserved  for  them 
alone.  Christianity  must  and  will  succeed  in  spite  of 
them  —  of  Popery — and   of  Calvinism." 

"Why  Uncle  John,"  said  Ned,  "you  don't  blaze  much, 
but  seem  to  be  hot.  If  neither  of  those  w^ill  answer,  there 
are  various  isms  to  wash  the  world  and  make  it  enjoy 
itself." 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  I39 

"  All  these  isms  leave  out,  or  propose  to  call  the  sel- 
fishness, the  egoism,  under  which  we  suffer,  a  good 
quality — hoping  thus  to  make  it  so.  They  do  not  propose 
a  "  change "  of  heart ;  but  on  the  contrary,  to  make  the 
spirit  of  man  do  what  the  spirit  of  Christ  only  can.  It 
seems  to  me  idle.  The  natural  man  is  not  good.  Nature 
herself,  in  all  ways,  is  unkind.  You  are  frozen  in  one 
part,  melted  in  another  !  Bugs  will  eat  you  in  this  place ; 
lions  in  that !  Hurricanes  blow  down  your  houses  here ; 
and  mildew  spoil  your  gooseberries  there  !  The  earth 
yields  only  to  blows,  and  the  will  of  man,  like  the  rest, 
must  be  plowed  and  harrowed  to  make  it  mellow.  Every 
man  must  fight  himself,  and  let  him  be  about  it.  Nature 
is  very  sweet  in  poetry;  but  she  is  not  kind  —  her  balmy 
skies,  and  velvet  turfs,  are  a  cheat  —  the  one,  my  boys, 
will  wet  your  head,   and   the   other  spoil   your  shoes  !  " 

"  I   am  not   a  boy,"   said  Grace. 

"  It   makes  no  difference  !  " 

"  Yes  it  does  make  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  I 
have  none  of  their  privileges,  and  I  shall  not  be  called, 
"  my   boys  ! " 

"  Well  move  your  horse  along,  or  I  shall  ride  over  him, 
and  then   what  difference  !  " 

"Oh,  Uncle  John,  after  all  that  new  gospel  —  to  v^dnd 
up   by  calling  me  a  boy  —  your  own  Grace!" 

"  Let  there  be  peace  between  you,"  said  Ned.  "  I  do  n't 
comprehend  these  great  social  evils  which  all  the  world 
is  agog  about." 

"  You   are   young  yet." 

"  So  Mr.  Wilson  informed  me ;  and  I  suppose  it 's  that 
which   ails  me  —  still  time  will  cure  it." 

"  So   it  will  these  great  social  evils,"  said  Uncle  John. 

"  There  is  one  comfort,"  said  Grace — "  we  are  out  of  the 


140  COTTAGES     AND 

way   of  those   helpless  cases   of    suflering,   with    which   the 
city    was    so   full.' 

"  There  are  more  of  thciii  in  thi:?  little  village  of  Mas- 
tewan,   to  our  right,   than   you   know  of." 

Within  an  hour  after  these  talks,  they  entered  the  yet 
unfenced  woods  near  their  home.  '  T  was  just  at  twilight, 
that  Ned  was  surprised  by  a  man,  who  started  up  from 
the  root   of  a  tree,  saying  — 

"  Give  me  money  !  " 

Ned  raised  the  handle  of  his  whip  to  defend  himself, 
as  he  thought,  from  a  bold  robber.  Uncle  John  seized 
his  arm,  and  pointing  to  the  ghastly  face  —  "Stop  one  mo- 
ment," said  he,  "  you  see,  my  man,  it  will  not  be  easy  to 
rob   us  ;  bat   arc   you  sick  ? "  he  asked,  as  he  sunk  back. 

"Cold,   and  hungry  —  and  alone." 

"  How  came  you  so  ?  " 

"  God  knows  how  I  came  so.  My  wife  and  child  died. 
/  was  sent  to  the  hospital.  I  came  from  it  to-day,  and 
am   too  weak  to  get  work  in   the  factory." 

"  But  at  the  factory  they  will  certainly  advance  you 
money,  if  they  know  you,  which  with  your  work  you  can 
repay." 

"That's  not  the  way  factories  do,"'  he  said  —  ''there's 
too  many  idle  fellows  about,  whom  they  have  to  look 
out  for." 

"  Here,"  said  Ned,  "  get  on  my  horse ;  I  can  waLl<  the 
rest  of  the  way.  We  will  do  something  for  you,  until 
you   get  so  as  to  do  something  for  yourself." 

"  But,"    said   he,    "  you    thought   1   wanted    to    rob   you ! 
If  I  would   steal,   why  should  n't  1  lie  ?  " 

"  Let  that  pass,"  said  Ned;  "get  on  the  horse.  I  was 
taken   by   surprise.    We  will  give  you  a  chance." 

The   great  tears  rolled  down  this  man's  face,  as  he  rode 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  141 

slowly  on  with  them,  for  he  was  too  weak  to  walk  — 
and  as  Grace  saw  him  overcome^  with  fasting  and  suffer- 
ing, her  fears  gave  way  to  sympathy.  Uncle  John  said  — 
"  You  see,  Grace,  that  quite  near  home  there  may  be  cases 
of  distress.  Suppose  we  are  imposed  upon  occasionally  ? 
It  is  a  pitiful  theory  that  will  never  do  an  act  of  kind- 
ness, because  it  may  sometimes  do  one  of  injustice  —  en- 
courage impostors  !  The  poor  and  miserable  are  not  the 
only  pretenders  ! " 

"  Well,  here  we  are  at  home,"  said  Grace,  *'  and  there 
surely  stands  Uncle  Tom  on  the  porch.  I  can  see  him  — 
'a  portly  man,  i'   faith.'" 

She  jumped  from  her  horse,  and  went  quickly  to  him. 
Ned  put  the  horses  in  charge  of  the  boy,  while  he  him- 
self saw  their  sick  man   provided  for. 


142  COTTAGES     AND 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

A  FEW  nights  after  their  return,  Grace  was  waked  by 
the  bursting  of  brass  instruments  under  her  window :  — 
"  A  noise,"  as  John  said,  "  as  if  all  the  sackbuts  in  scrip- 
ter  had  broke  loose."  This  seemed  to  be  the  prelude  — 
the   awakening   of   the   soul   for    the   song   which   followed. 

"I  would  love  like  the  bird  of  the  silver  note,* 
Would  love  over  earth  and  sea;  — 
Alone  on  the  gilded  wave  would  float  — 
Alone,  my  love,  with  thee. 

I  would  woo  with  the  voice  of  the  turtle  dove, — 

With  the  glance  of  the  evening  star  — 
That  Ughts  in  my  soul  a  record  of  love, 

Wliich  time  can  nor  fade  nor  mar. 

I  would  wed  with  the  fairest  of  earthly  fair, — 

Would  offer  her  wealth  of  the  mine, — 
Of  the  soul  —  of  the  heart  —  of  the  sea,  and  air. 

That  my  Ufe  with  hers  might  entwine." 

The  clarionet  and  trombone  then  struck  up,  as  if  in 
commendation,  or,  perhaps,  to  cover  the  silence  which  must 
follow  a  song,  —  even  if  well  .sung.  Uncle  Tom  raised  his 
window,  and,  making  his  voice  heard,  growled  out  to  them : 

•  What  bird  ? 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  143 

"  Stop  your  crashing,  or  I  '11  shoot  into  you.  Is  it  no- 
thing to  disturb  one's  night's  rest?  You  will  oblige  me  if 
you   will   go   away." 

This  not  being  in  any  sense  a  flattering  reception,  the 
party  stole  quietly  away,  —  though  Derwent  was  heard  to 
call   him   "  a  damned   old  hulks." 

"  Had  I  better  let  fly  into  the  flock,  squire  ? "  said 
Haskill   under   the   window. 

"What,  Jim,  you  here  too?  What's  got  into  you  all 
to-night?     Why   are   you   not   at  home,   and   abed?" 

"  Home 's  a  purty  word,  squire ;  but  I  have  tried  it  to- 
night, and  it  wont  do.  What  would  you  do  up  there 
without  your  brown-haired  Grace  ?  Shootin'  would  be  of 
no  use;  —  no,  no.  Alone!  It's  not  good  to  be  alone." 
His  old  pointer  put  his  nose  into  the  hand  which  hung 
by  his  side.  "  Ah,  Bob,  you  stick  by  me.  You  see,  squire, 
I  've  took  up  a  new  business :  I  carry  this  old  shootin' 
iron  round,  because  I'm  use  to  it;  but  I  don't  shoot, — 
I  wait  on  Derwent,  Harry  —  it  's  slow  work,  but  it  '11 
pay  in  time.  Well,  I'll  go,  —  good  night;  —  the  owls  is 
out.      I   never   shot   an   owl   in  my   life,  —  good   night." 

"  Good  night,"  said  Uncle  Tom,  as  he  let  his  window 
drop. 

"  Good  night,  Jim,"  said  Grace,  from  her  half-  opened 
window. 

He  made  no  reply,  but  walked  swiftly  on,  and  some 
tears  squeezed  themselves  from  his  long  eyes.  Jim  was 
human,  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  a  desolate  and  desperate 
man.  What  ties  he  had  with  mankind,  were  snapped  by 
this  desertion  of  Bessy,  in  whom  all  his  affection  and  care 
centered.  She  existed  only  for  him,  and  to  him;  and  at 
this  very  time  it  is  likely  that  no  one,  except  himself  and 
Derwent,    knew    any    thing    of    her   abduction.       He    had 


144  COTTAGES     AND 

made  inquiries  for  her,  and  satisfied  himself  that  Derwent 
had  led  her  away;  —  he,  too,  then  disappeared  from  the 
campground,  and  had  not  been  seen  in  the  neighborhood 
until  now,  when  he  reappeared  at  midnight  upon  Derwents 
track.  In  the  morning,  when  his  eyes  were  bloodshot,  and 
his  face  lanker  than  ever,  people  said  he  had  been  upon  a 
spree ! 

At  the  breakfast  table  the  following  morning,  Grace  in- 
quired anxiously  of  Uncle  Tom,  who  seemed  paler  and 
more  glum  than  usual,  *'  if  he  had  been  disturbed  by  her 
serenaders  ?" 

"Not  much;  —  though  I  wished  them  at  the  bottom  of 
the   river." 

"Why,"  said  Ned,  "'twas   Harry  Derwent?" 

"  I  can  't  help  that ;    I  lost  the  night  by  him." 

Uncle  John,  who  knew  better  where  the  trouble  lay, 
turned  the  conversation  to  the  business  difficulties  which 
threatened. 

Uncle  Tom  went  on,  —  "that  things  were  not  as  in  his 
day,  —  how  young  men  began  where  old  ones  then 
stopped,  —  how  nobody  was  willing  to  work  and  wait, — 
how  women  led  their  husbands  on  to  extravagances,  which, 
it  must  be  confessed,  were  quite  agreeable  to  them,  —  how, 
in  one  sense,  they  were  all  unselfish,  and  ruined  themselves 
to  make  a  show  for  the  world." 

In  the  midst  of  a  great  deal  of  these  fusty  truths,  which 
all  assent  to,  and  none  believe,  Grace  was  handed  a  letter, 
by  a  boy,  well  equipped,  whom  she  recognized  as  wearing 
the  cloth  of  Mr.  Derwent.  While  Uncle  Tom  held  forth, 
she   read   to   herself — 

Mv  Dear  Mi&s, 

You   must    have  divined  ere   this    the    nature    of   my 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  145 

feelings  toward  you  ( she  smiled  at  the  originaUty  of  the 
opening) ;  nothing  but  their  intensity  has  prevented  me 
from  breathing  them  to  you  ere  this;  and  now,  how  can 
words  express  to  you  the  ardor  of  my  attachment?  To  say 
that  you  are  necessary  —  indispensable  —  to  the  holy  and 
happy  fulfillment  of  my  "  mission,"  would  be  to  say  what 
you  must  already  know.  In  the  words  of  the  bard  whom, 
next  to  yourself,  I  love,  "  I  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever 
thou  art"  (complimentary,  she  thought).  It  is  only  in  the 
burning  language  of  poetry  that  I  can  find  utterance  to  my 
soul. 

'Mid  poetry,  music,  love,  and  odors,  I  would  forever 
pass  my  days  with  thee;  —  would  forego  all  the  delights  of 
ambition,  power,  glory,  and  wealth,  for  you,  and  you  alone. 
I  pray  you,  then,  not  to  blight  the  young  buds  of  hope, 
with  the  cool  breath  of  denial,  but  to  let  them  grow  in  the 
sunshine  of  your  favor.  The  messenger  waits  the  answer 
which  will  consign,  to  happiness  or  misery,  your  devoted 
servant,  H.  Thompson  Derwent. 

Ned  had  seen  the  changes  in  her  face  as  she  read 
over  the  letter;  —  for  a  proposal  is  an  important  matter 
to  all  girls,  though,  it  must  be  confessed  that  Grace  was 
at  least  twenty!  He  came  to  the  back  of  her  chair,  say- 
ing, in  a  low  voice,  "A  proposal  —  an  address  to  his  con- 
stituents, I  think?" 

"So,  Mr.  Yankee,  what  will  you  give  to  know?" 
"  Do  n't  you  know  that  I   am   in   his   confidence  ? " 
Grace  started,  in  a  little  surprise;  —  the  "ruse"  had  suc- 
ceeded.    Ned  smiled,  while   she   slightly  colored    at  having 
been  caught. 

Uncle    Tom    saw  that    his    discourse   w^as   not  much   at- 
tended   to,   and   asked  — 
19 


146  COTTAGE:?     AND 

"What's    going    on?" 

"Why,  sir,  Grace   has  — 

"  Do  n't  be  too  sure,  Ned.  You  know  liars  will  he 
burnt    uj) ! " 

"Has  a  proposal,  —  or  some  'addresses,'  whatever  it  is 
called." 

"  Let 's   see,   Gracie." 

"You   must  bind  yourself  to   secrecy?    otherwise  — " 

"  Oh !    I  '11    be    as  secret   as   death." 

He  read  the  proposal  through  with  great  gravity,  and 
having  concluded,  asked,  putting  his  finger  on  the  name, 
"Who   is   this?" 

"  Why,   it 's   plain   enough,   sir." 

"II.  Thompson  —  " 

"  Hush !  hush ! "  said  Grace,  putting  her  hand  on  his 
mouth. 

"  It 's    Harry  Derwent,   sir,"   said  Ned. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  laughed  Uncle  Tom.  "So,  that  s  the 
way  to  write  the  name?  Well,  girl,  what  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it?"  —  for  the  idea  of  her  marrying  any  one 
had   not   seriously  come    into   his    thoughts. 

"  Why,  answer  it,  of  course,"  she  replied,  rather  eva- 
sively, it  must  be   allowed. 

"Yes,  but   how?    decline?" 

"What   M'ould   you   advise?" 

"  I   should   do   as  I   thought  best." 

"  I  think   I   will,"   said   Grace. 

While  she  was  out  of  the  room.  Uncle  Tom  was  lost 
in  the  idea  of  her  leaving  him,  or  in  some  way  trans- 
ferring herself  to  another.  It  had  not,  until  now,  seemed 
a  serious  matter.  Ned  was  nervous  and  uncomfortable, — 
walked  to  the  window,  —  and  out  on  to  the  grass,  —  re- 
turned  again  ; — whatever   Uncle  .John's   thoughts,  or  hopes. 


COTTAGE      LIFE.  147 

or  fears,  might  have  been,  he  showed  no  evidences  of 
any. 

The  more  Uncle  Tom  thought  it  over,  the  more  objection- 
able the  thing  seemed  to  him ;  though,  when  first  mentioned 
by  old  Derwent,  it  had  not  excited  much  speculation  either 
way.     He  was  gradually  worked  up,  until  he  exploded  — 

"  By  the  lord !  there  is  no  knowing  what  a  woman  will 
do." 

"I  know  what  Grace  will  do,"  replied  Uncle  John.  Just 
then  she  entered  the  room,  and,  walking  up  to  her  father, 
whispered  in  his  ear, — "I  shall  not  leave  you,  so  long  as 
you  have   room." 

"God  bless  you!"    he   said,   pressing    her   to    his    heart. 


148  COTTAdES     AND 


CHAPTER     XXV. 

It  has  been  already  hinted,  that  Ned  Lee  was,  by  de- 
grees, coming  to  a  distinct  understanding  with  himself — 
that  an  occupation  was  desirable  —  but  what  that  should 
be  was  not  so  definite.  He  had  no  ambition  to  be  ranked 
with  the  armies  of  commerce,  "ninety-three  per  cent,  of 
whom  either  fail,  or  die  poor;"  yet  the  overfull  profes- 
sions, falsely  called  liberal,  held  out  no  very  liattering 
prospects  to  one  whose  ambition  or  necessities  were  not 
whips  to  goad  him.  He  had  resolved  to  break  the  matter 
to  Uncle  Tom,  who  was  prosing  over  his  newspaper,  and 
who,  by  the  right  of  ascent,  should  have  the  most  to  say 
in  such  a  matter,  next  to  Ned  himself.  But  Uncle  Tom 
seemed   to  be   in   an   unfavorable   frame   of  mind. 

"Confound  this  fellow,''  said  he,  "he  gets  stupider  daily. 
Why  the  devil  can't  he   speak   out?" 

"  Is  there  any  dreadful  accident  ? "  inquired  Ned,  who 
was  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  mention   his  affairs. 

"  Accident,  indeed  !  If  there  were,  he  would  n't  mention 
it,  for  it   might   offend  some  of  his   customers." 

"Suppose  I  start  an  independent  journal?"  suggested 
Ned. 

"Oh  —  yes — they  are  all  independent.  i  want  a  ncns- 
paper  —  a  journal  for  news  —  do  you  understand,  sir?  Is 
it  any  thing  to  mc  that  this  L.  Cass  Tompkins  is,  or  is 
not,  elected  supervisor?  Must  I  give  my  time  and  money 
to    sift  out  the   single   grain   of  this   man's   (|uarrcl  with  the 


COTTAGE    LIFE.  H9 

"Evening  World,"  eh,  sir?  I  '11  stop  it  to-morrow"  — 
and  Uncle  Tom  started  up  and  pulled  down  his  spectacles 
as  though  he  would  do  it  then.  Ned  thought  for  an  in- 
stant, but  concluded  that  this  might  be  as  good  a  time  as 
any,  and  said  — 

"  I  have  to  speak  with  you  about  my  own  small  affairs, 
for  a  few   moments." 

"  Go  on  —  sir,"  said  Uncle  Tom,  some  of  his  vigor  and 
heat  spending  itself  here ;  although  it  might  at  another 
time  have  seemed  queer  that  Ned  should  have  any 
affairs. 

"  I  have  proposed  to  myself  to  go  to  work  with  Der- 
mott,  at  his  gardening.  I  can  learn  something  with  him, 
and   I   am   of  no    use   here." 

If  one  reflects  for  a  moment,  how  utterly  impossible 
it  is,  in  such  an  occupation,  to  guard  against  tan ;  to  pre- 
serve one's  hands  in  a  state  of  purity,  with  the  length  of 
nail  evidently  intended  by  Providence — how  totally  incon- 
gruous small  boots  must  be  —  how  much  more  "gentle- 
manly"— infinitely  —  it  is  to  "pack"  calicoes,  by  the  light 
of  beautiful  coalgas,  than  to  sit  on  the  damp  grass  in 
the  dewy  evenings,  and  feel — the  musquitoes  bite  —  and 
above  all,  as  Mr.  Headley  himself  must  admit,  how  little 
likely  Napoleon  and  his  marshals,  who  preferred  the  manu- 
ring of  the  M'orld  in  a  large  way  —  as  at  Waterloo  — 
would  have  been  to  take  such  a  step,  it  will  not  be 
wondered  at,  I  think,  that  Uncle  Tom  poo-poohed  and 
said  — 

"  Well,  sir  !  " 

"  I  thought  it  best  to  speak  of  it  to  you ;  for  whilst  you 
would  be  glad  to  see  that  I  did  not  intend  always  to 
be  good  for  nothing  —  there  might  be  some  reason  for 
delay  —  or  — 


150  COTTAGESAND 

"None  in  the  least — good-bye.  You  had  better  take  a 
hoe    along  —  a   man   should   own    his  tools." 

There  was  a  little  sarcasm  perceptible  in  his  manner, 
and  Ned   waited    a   few   moments   for  the   result. 

"Why  don't  you  go,  boy?  Don't  thank  me  —  there  's 
Bridgeman's    Assistant  —  you  shall   have   that,   too." 

"I  am  waiting  to  say  that  I  am  a  gentleman — made  so 
by  you,  sir  —  and  that  raising  carrots  can't  get  it  out 
of  me." 

The  old  man  looked  up,  and  a  tear  or  two  dropped  into 
his    shirt   rufHe. 

"You  are  right,  Ned — and  I  am  a  testy  old  fool.  But 
come  —  take    my   hand!" 

Ned  then  explained  himself  to  Uncle  Tom,  who  still 
held   him   by  the   hand.     . 

"j\ed  —  I  believe  you  arc  right.  If  I  have  ever  thought 
you  weak-jointed  and  incapable,  I  think  so  no  longer. 
Now  how  can  I  help  you?  Shall  1  see  Dermott?  Shall  1 
buy  half  his  business  for  you  ?  " 

"No,   sir,"    said  Ned,  a  little  moved   in  his   turn. 

"What   then?" 

"  Leave   me  alone,   if  you   will,  sir  ! " 

As  Grace  entered  at  this  moment  she  stopped,  seeing 
these   two   in  this   unusual  condition. 

"  What 's  happened  ?  You  look  as  miserable  as  if  you 
were   sure    of  salvation." 

"  Ned  has  concluded  to  go  to  heaven  in  his  own  way, 
and   not  in   mine,   which   is  quite  contrary  to  rule." 

"  I  am  glad  he  has  concluded  to  go  either  way  —  but 
what  is  it  —  do  n't  keep  me  standing  in  purgatory — you 
know  my  curiosity  ! " 

"Ned's  going  away  —  to  live  with  Dermott — and  I  am 
glad    of  it." 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  151 

"  I  am  not.  But  what  is  this,  Ned  ?  she  added,  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  You  look  as  though  you  were  a 
little    ashamed  of  something  —  not  going   away  ?  " 

"It  's   even  so." 

"  What,  going  away  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Why  Ned,  you  belong  to  me  —  to  all  of  us,"  correcting 
herself  as  she  removed  her  hand.  "  What 's  to  become  of 
Billy,  and  the  pigeons  that  Dr.  Marshall  has  sent — g,nd 
the  bees  which  I  am  to  have  —  and  who  's  to  read  the 
new  French  books — and  what  's  to  become  of  me  —  that's 
the   question — where  am   I  to   go?" 

"Uncle  John  and  1  shall  be  here,"  said  her  father  — 
"  two   men   to  one  woman   is   liberal." 

"With  prospects,  too,"  continued  Ned;  "but  five  miles 
is  not  such    a  vast  ocean   as   to   be  impassable." 

"That's  true,"  said  Grace;  "but  if  I  were  governor,  all 
servile  labor  and  vain  recreation  should  be  permanently 
forbidden." 

"  My  labor  will  not   be   servile,  unless   I   make   it  so." 

The  next  morning  Ned  prepared  to  start  for  Dermott's 
before  sunrise,  when  Grace  met  him  in  her  usual  clean 
morning  trim.  They  walked  together  to  the  gate,  and 
when  she  left  him,  she  handed  him  a  note  from 
Uncle  Tom.  This  contained  fifty  dollars  (strange  as  it 
may  seem,  't  is  true ),  saying  that  such  would  be  sent  to 
him   quarterly,   for  books  and  other  such  wants. 

"  I  do  n't  need  it,"  Ned  said  to  himself,  as  he  stuffed  it 
into  his  pocket.  He  turned  to  take  one  more  look  at 
Grace,  who  strangely  enough  had  at  that  moment  turned 
to   kiss   her  hand   to  him. 


152  COTTAGES     AND 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

Ned  went  on  with  his  work  with  considerable  interest, 
occasionally  spending  a  day  at  the  house,  which  he  found 
a  pleasant  relaxation,  even  from  the  novelty  of  a  new 
occupation.  Politics,  toward  the  close  of  the  summer,  had 
a  good  deal  engrossed  Uncle  Tom's  thoughts,  and  there 
was  some  danger  of  his  adopting  this  bastard  child  of  states- 
manship. Ned  happened  to  be  at  home  one  day,  when 
Mr.  Ellery  and  Mr.  Scranton  coming  in,  and  the  conver- 
sation  naturally   leading   to   politics,  Mr.    Ellery   said  — 

"The  statesman  labors  for  the  good  of  others, —  the 
politician   kills   himself  for  his   own   advancement." 

"  Why,  Ellery,"  replied  Mr.  Scranton,  "  a  man  must  at- 
tend to  his  own  interests.  He  who  neglects  his  own 
household   is  worse   than   an   infidel,   you  know." 

"  One  of  the  mo.st  abused  scriptures  ever  written.  We 
choose  a  man  out  from  among  us  to  act  for  us  —  for  the 
good  of  the  whole,  —  and  what  a  pitiful  fellow  is  he  who, 
instead  of  doing  it,  uses  his  position  for  paltry  purposes. 
Whether  there  are  enough  good  men  among  us  to  save 
us  from  sinking,  remains  to  be  seen.  We  shall  probably 
leave  our  milestone  on  the  great  road  of  progress,  and 
pass   away,   like    the   republics   of  the   Greeks." 

"  Now,  Ellery,  if  you  begin  upon  the  Greeks,  I  have  done. 
It's  of  no  use  to  talk  further;  —  you  ought  to  have  been 
an   Athenian  Greek   yourself —  " 

"  Or  a  'Ebrew  .Tew,"  sugiiested    Uncle  John. 


C  O  T  T  A  G  K     L  I  F  E .  1 53 

"And  how  any  body,  whose  head  is  so  full  of  Fouriers, 
and  missions,  and  problems  of  the  age,  as  yours,  can  be 
constantly   going   back  to  those  old  heathens,   I  can  't  see." 

"  Wisdom,  surely,  was  not  born  with  us,"  said  Uncle 
John. 

"  I  hope  not,"  answered  Mr.  Scranton.  "  But,  to  change 
this  subject,  for  it  is  growing  too  heavy,  for  this  warm 
morning,  —  how  do  you  get  on  with  your  building,  neigh- 
bor  Ellison?" 

"I  suppose,  as  well  as  others  —  but  I  have  no  patience. 
A  parcel  of  fellows,  who  have  built  brick  stores,  are  de- 
termined that  my  house  shall  be  a  brick  store ;  and  I  am 
determined  that  it  shall  not  be  one.  In  the  first  place, 
the  foreman  has  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  make  me 
give  up  my  tower  (see  Plate  I);  then,  to  persuade* me 
that  round  arches  are  necessary.  I  tell  him  that  I  know 
that  the  masonry  will  make  an  arch  of  itself  for  so  small 
a  space.  Then  he  says  that  the  blocking  course  will  hold 
water.  I  say,  therefore,  leave  a  space  of  two  inches  be- 
tween it  and  the  top  of  the  wall.  Then  he  do  n't  like 
bay  windows,  and  insists  that  the  stone  ought  to  be  painted 
red!  A  house  fit  for  the  fiend  himself,  I  should  have. 
Look  at  it:  no  tower,  —  no  bay  windows,  —  no  blocking 
course,  —  no  piazza  (for  he  thinks  six  feet  is  wide  enough), 
and  —  red  —  a   model   house  —  ho!    ho!" 

"  I  should  not  be  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Scranton,  "  if  it 
should  in  the  end  prove  to  be  'Ellison's  Folly,'  as  almost 
all  of  these  expensive   houses  do." 

"Why,  it's  a  handsome  house?" 

"  Yes,  I  confess,  I  am  getting  to  like  it  pretty  well." 

"  If  it  is  a  good   house,  also,  why  should  it  be  '  Ellison's 
Folly  ? '  " 
20 


154  COTTAGES     AND 

"  Why,  sir.  in  this  country,  every  man  likes  to  build  liis 
own  house,  and  no  one  will  pay  for  another  man's  freaks." 

"Every  man,''  said  Uncle  John,  "feels  himself  perfectly 
comj)etent  to  do  well,  the  three  most  difHcult  things, — 
reading  aloud —  building  a  house  —  and  driving  a  horse." 

"  For  the  driving,"  said  Mr.  Ellery,  "  I  confess  my  unfit- 
ness. As  we  go  back  to  man  in  his  normal  state,  driving 
is  an  accident,  and  not  an  art;  while,  in  England,  horses 
have  lost  their  original  organization,  and  have  become 
hacks."  * 

"Man,  also,"  said  Uncle  .John,  'cannot  be  distinguished 
from  this  beast,  except  by  counting  the  legs  ;  and  it  is  cu- 
rious to  observe  that  large  numbers  of  them  are  found*  in 
the  two  most  elevated  conditions  of  life,  —  the  church  and 
the  state.  In  this  country,  also,  they  abound,  are  furnished 
with  a  bill,  and  belong  to  the  ^ pidicidce'  blood-sucking  insects." 

"While,  among  the  Greeks,"  continued  Mr.  Ellery,  —  hav- 
ing mounted  his  hobby,  —  "where  church  and  state  were 
not  so  dreadfully  in  earnest,  driving  was  taught  to  the  few, 
whereby  neither  men  nor  beasts  were  ruined." 

"The  greater  portion,"  added  Uncle  John,  "at  a  slight 
pause,  being  taught  (what  is  much  more  to  the  purpose) 
to  be  driven!  while,  out  of  the  other  class,  grew  the  cen- 
taur—  half  man  and  half  horse." 

"  To  which  mixture  we  have  added  the  alligator,  season- 
ing it  with  snapping  turtle,"  said  Ned,  "making,  altogether, 
the  most  powerful  mixture  —  " 

"  Neither  of  those  latter  animals,"  said  Mr.  Ellery,  who, 
perhaps,  saw  the  discourse  passing  out  of  his  mouth,  "  were 
known  among  the  Greeks.  On  the  banks  of  the  Nile 
modifications  of  them  were  found,  and  the  Egyptian  civil- 
ization is  strongly  tinctured  with  them;  while,  as  you 
remarked,  Mr.  Eillison,  the   rrntaur    may  be    considered    the 


COTTAGE     LIFE. 


15ft 


type    of  the  Greeks  —  blending    and    harmonizing    into    one 
the   sensual   and   the   spiritual  —  matter    and    mind  —  " 

"The  smallest  drop  of  which,"  said  Ned,  continuing  his 
branch  of  the  subject,  "  applied  to  an  old  monarchical 
carcass,  resolves  it  at  once  into  its  original  elements,  with 
an  effervescence  (a  word  derived  from  ferveo  —  to  be  hot, 
to  rage),  and  a  sound  of  hissing  and  raging,  as  if  the  old 
serpent  himself  had  broke  loose,  or  all  the  soda  fountains 
had  started  their  vents, —  and  often  with  explosions  — " 

"  Which,  I  may  say,"  continued  Uncle  John,  resuming  his 
discourse,  "  has  given  rise  to  the  word  century,  one  of  the 
most  important  divisions  of  time,  and  which,  next  to 
'mission,'  is  most  in  use.  We  come  from  that  to  the 
word   center   by  a  natural   gradation." 

"All  of  which,"  continued  Mr.  Ellery,  "can  be  directly 
traced  to  the  Greek  civilization,  which  may  be  called  the 
center,   the   starting   point  — " 

"  Shaking  thrones  and  kingdoms,"  continued  Ned,  "  to 
their  center,  and  making  this  century  more  remarkable 
than   that  in   which   the   Roman   centurion  — " 

By  this  time,  Uncle  Tom  was  shaking  in  his  chair, — 
Grace  surprised,  and  half  alarmed,  lest  they  had  been 
taking  champaigne  again, — Mr.  Scranton  e\'idently  bewil- 
dered,—  and  Mr.  Ellery,  when  the  whole  matter  resulted 
in  a  loud  laugh,  a  little  annoyed;  which,  however,  passed 
off,    as   he  joined   in   what   was   inevitable. 

This  having  passed  away.  Uncle  John  resumed  the  con- 
versation, by   asking   Uncle   Tom  — 

"  What  is  this  which  I  hear  of  you,  who  consider  your- 
self a  candidate  for  office  —  that  you  have  announced 
yourself  to   be   in   favor   of  slavery?" 

"1  never  thought  it,  —  never  said  it,  —  and  never  will!" 
said   Uncle   Tom,  with   emphasis. 


156  COTTAGER     AND 

"I   know    that;    but  what    did   you   say?" 

"  1  do  n't  think  of  any  thing,  unless  it  was,  '  that,  were 
1  living  in  a  slave-holding  country,  under  some  circum- 
stances, I  should  not  hesitate  to  own  slaves.'  No,  sir,  if 
1  had  a  thousand  slaves,  1  would  make  use  of  my  in- 
lluence  among  my  neighbors,  and  preach  and  pray  that 
they  might  be  led  to  unite  with  me  in  measures  for  the 
extinction  of  the  practice,  upon  the  face  of  this  earth, — 
that   I   said,    and    will   say    any    where!" 

"Who    did   you   say   this   to?" 

"  Most   likely,   to  Derwent." 

"  He,  I  think,  first  suggested  the  idea  of  making  you  the 
candidate  in   this   election  ? " 

"  Yes,  I   think   he   did." 

"  Well,  he  does  not  seem  latterly  to  make  himself  quite 
so  much  your  friend  as  before;  and,  indeed,  1  have  heard 
it  whispered  that  he  might  be  persuaded  to  sacrifice  him- 
self upon  the  altar  of  politics,  for  the  salvation  of  this 
particular   neighborhood." 

"  Hops,  honey,  and  hogs,  would  then  be  properly  '  pro- 
tected,' and  our  interests  would  no  longer  suffer,"  said 
Ned. 

"  It  is  a  curious  thing,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  that,  from 
Randolph  down  even  to  McDuflie,  '  slavery '  has  seriously 
been  held  to  be  the  bulwark  of  'liberty!'  It  is  such  a 
paternal  institution,  too!  and  it  is  curious  and  incompre- 
hensible, the  tenacity  with  which  they  hang  on  to  what 
they  all  know  to  be  the  greatest  of  moral,  social,  and 
political   evils.     They  are  monomaniacs." 

"1  don't  see,"  said  Mr.  Scranton,  "why  all  this  hulla- 
baloo is   made  —  why  they  can  't  be   left  alone." 

"You  have  not  been  on  the  Ohio  river?  Well,  sir,  it 
is    almost   literally    true,   that    from   Wheeling    to   Cairo, — 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  157 

from  its  source  to  its  mouth,  —  the  one  bank  is  bursting 
with  life,  vigor,  and  hope ;  the  other,  attenuated  with 
weakness  and  wilderness.  The  one  marches  ( good  or 
evil,  as  you  may  think)  onward  to  wealth  and  power  — 
the    other   sinks  into   decay  and  death." 

"  I  think  this  must  be  exaggerated.  I  cannot  believe," 
said  Mr.  Scranton,  "  but  that  Kentucky  is  one  of  the  best 
states  in  the  Union.  Look  at  some  of  her  men !  — 
there  's  —  " 

Uncle  John  continued :  "  Kentucky,  in  twenty  years, 
will  be  one  of  the  first  states  in  this  Union;  for  she, 
certainly,  before  then,  will  sweep  out  this  dirt,  —  and  then 
there  will  be  such  a  tide  of  emigration  into  her  rich  and 
beautiful   plains   as   has   never  before   been   heard   of." 

"Bravo!"  said  Uncle  Tom,  "we  must  have  you  on 
the    stump." 

"  This  is  mostly  Greek  to  me,"  said  Grace,  turning  to 
Mr.  Ellery ;  "  you  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that.  But  it 
is  refreshing  after  our  discussion  of  dishes  and  dresses. 
I  must  take  to   politics,  like  the  women  of  the  revolution." 

"But,  about  this  'great  west,'"  said  Mr.  Scranton,  "will 
it  come   to   any   thing?" 

"It  is  coming,  with  giant  strides;  —  it  is  the  country  of 
production,  and  is  fast  learning  its  own  importance.  The 
time  will  come  when  the  producing  classes  will  take  their 
position  in  the  front  rank,  and  the  factors  fall  back,  as 
they  ought,   to   the   least   important  class." 

Mr.  Scranton  shook  his  head,  while  Uncle  John  continued : 

"  There  is  a  short  way  of  putting  the  matter,  which 
covers  the  whole  ground,  —  democracy  is  the  spirit  of  the 
age." 

"  Certainly." 

"  This  country  is  the  standard  bearer  of  democracy." 


158  COTTAGE.^     AND 

"  Certainly.'' 

"  The  west  is  becoming,  or  has  become,  the  ruhng  power 
in  this  country." 

"Possibly?" 

"Cincinnati  is  the  center  of  the  west,  —  therefore,  the 
center  of  the  world ;  and  you  had  better  calculate  your 
longitude   accordingly. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  159 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

Derwent  had  been  cautious  and  quiet  after  his  doings 
at  the  camp  meeting;  —  for  two  or  three  days  had  been 
careful  not  to  be  in  Jim  Haskill's  way; — had  kept  close 
to  the  village,  and  was  getting  to  feel  at  his  ease  while 
the  daylight  lasted;  —  had  even  revived  his  successes  with 
the  weaker  sex,  in  the  minds  of  the  few  of  his  associates, 
over  whom  his  money  gave  him  authority,  and  began  to 
hint  at   Bessey,    and  his  prospects   in   that  quarter. 

There  was,  however,  to  their  credit  be  it  said,  some 
remnant  of  decency  in  these  friends,  which  called  forth  a 
remonstrance  as  to  the  poor,  helpless  girl — so  that  Der- 
went himself  began  to  think  he  had  not  done  so  brave  a 
thing  as  he  had  hoped — even  their  cheap  praise  he  had 
not  secured!  Nobody  envied  him!  This  was  a  blow;  for 
he  had  run  the  risk  of  Jim  Haskill's  vengeance,  without 
having  gratified  his  vanity;  which,  after  all,  lay  at  the  bot- 
tom of  his  wickedness.  The  idea  of  Jim's  vengeance  took 
possession  of  him,  and  grew  to  be  a  monster  within  him  : 
the  demon  of  fear !  and  in  the  nights  he  overshadowed 
him,  and  clutched  at  him  —  dim  and  shapeless  —  mouths 
without  eyes  —  hands  without  arms.  It  could  not  be  aeon- 
science  ?  that  had  been  sacrificed  long  ago.  No,  't  was 
fear  —  and  in  the  broad  daylight  it  haunted  him — and  he 
felt  that  a  strong,  bony  hand  was  behind,  which  he  shrank 
away  from ;  hardly  daring  to  turn  and  see  that  it  was  not 
there  —  and    he   tried    to    drown    the    devil    with  drink,   and 


150  ('.(ITT  AGES     AND 

to  shout  him  down  with  those  inspiriting  choruses — "we'll 
drink  six  bottles  and  ov<m'" — which  make  the  bar  room 
life  so  exciting.  But  it  was  a  hard  Ufe  —  and  his  father 
began  to  hint  that  Grace's  trifling  had  had  a  very  serious 
effect  upon  his  son,  as  well  as  to  believe  that  this  course 
of  life    might  become  too  expensive. 

Harry  Derwent  was  uneasy  and  miserable  enough,  and 
it  would  be  a  relief  to  him  to  meet  llaskill.  Did  he 
really  suspect  him  ?  would  he  kill  him  ?  These  things 
pressed  upon  hiin,  and  he  would  be  glad  to  know  the 
vvorst  —  but  he  was  "horribly  afeard."  Should  he  confess 
all — tell  where  Bessy  was,  and  so  disarm  him?  But  per- 
haps he  did  not  suspect  ? 

More  than  a  week  had  passed,  and  Haskill  had  not 
been  seen.  Derwent  sat  on  the  stoop  of  the  tavern,  one 
afternoon,  smoking  his  cigar,  and  wondering  as  to  Jim's 
movements,  when  a  hand  was  laid  on  his    shoulder. 

He  started  as  though  a  snake  had  laid  his  head  there  — 
for  he  knew  the  touch  —  "Why,"  said  Jim,  "what's  the 
matter?     You're  kind   o'  scary?" 

"By  George,  Jim!  how  are  you?  I  was  just  thinking 
about  you — give   us  your  hand." 

"What  do  you  want   o'    my  hand?" 

"  W^hy,  where  have  you  been  ?  I  'm  devilish  glad  to 
see  you,"  said  Derwent,  shaking  away  at  his  bony  arm  — 
when  suddenly  Jim  griped  his  hand,  and  the  blood  rushed 
frightened  to  his  heart,  while  he  writhed  and  almost 
screamed  with  the  pain. 

"Why  that  don't  hurt  you,  does  it?"  he  asked — "that  ".s 
nothing — here,  squeeze  mine  once  '  —  he  said,  holding  out 
his   hand. 

"No,  I  thank  you.  What's  the  use,  Jim?  You  squeeze 
my  hand  out   of  shape.     1  shall  never  hold  a  pen   again." 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  161 

"What  —  not  to  write  your  will?  Well  —  you  can  do  as 
I  do  —  make  your  mark.  I  've  made  mine  to  scores  of 
things,  and  could  never  write  a  word  —  and  I  can  shoot 
as  well  as   any  man  that  writes." 

Derwent  was  becoming  reassured.  Jim  did  not  seem 
much  more  savage  than   was  usual  with  him. 

"But  where  have  you  been,  Jim?  for  such  a  time  — 
we  've  been  dull  here  —  nobody  that  could  pitch  worth  a 
cent?" 

"  I  should  think  I  might  sharpen  'em  up  ;  but  I  've  had 
good  game  on  Shaganick — fine  work  o'  nights  with  coons. 
You   went   off  sudden   from   the   camp   ground?" 

"Yes,"  said  Derwent,  shaking  again  —  "the  old  man 
was  sick  —  and   I  was  kept  with  him  for  a  day  or  two." 

"He  aint  dead,  eh?"  asked  Jim,  leering  a  little  —  "you 
hav'  n't  got  your   money  yet  ?  " 

"No,  Jim  —  but  do  you  want  some?  I  can  get  you 
some  —  eh  ?  " 

"What   do    I   want   with  money?" 

u^VVell  —  come  in  and  take  something  to  drink — I  'm 
dry,   myself." 

"I  'm  reformed,  and  you  'd  better.  I  'm  afraid  you 
did  'nt  hear    enough    of    them    sermons,   at    the    meeting  ? 

The   confounded   camp   meeting  again  ! 

"  Oh  pshaw ! "  said  Derwent,  taking  hold  of  his  arm  — 
"come  in." 

But  Jim   was    as   solid    as    a   rock. 

"  Why  do  n't  you  come  up  and  shoot  for  a  day  ?  The 
birds  are   getting   fat." 

"  Why,  I  've   sold  my   gun,"   said   Derwent,   hesitatingly. 

"  Sold  your  gun !     I  thought  you  was  going  to  give  that 

to   me?" 
21 


16-2  COTTAGKR    AND 

"]\o — (lid  you?  Did  you  want  it,  Jim?  I  forgot — but 
i   can  get  it   back." 

"Oh,  no  —  you  '11  have  something  ehsc,  which  1  "  11 
want.'" 

"Any  thing,  Jim  —  I'll  give  you  any  thing  that  I  have.'" 

"No — will  you,  though?  Well  that  would  be  a  satis- 
faction." 

Satisfaction  ?  In  Derwent's  honorable  head  that  word 
had  something  to  do  with  duelling.  Did  Jim  mean  to  fight 
a   duel    with   him  ?     But  Jim    went   on    again. 

"  So  —  the  governor  "s  going  to  be  sent  to  the  legisla- 
ture.    You'll   have    a   nice   time,   eh?" 

"No  —  how  did   you   hear  that?" 

"The  birds  —  you  know%"  said  Jim,  winking  —  "they 
carry  these   matters  about,   as  the   scripter  says." 

"  The  old  man  could  get  you  an  ofTice,"  said  Derwent, 
lowering  his  voice. 

"He,  he" — chuckled  Jim  —  "good  —  let's  see,  what  "11 
I  be  ?  You  and  I  together  might  manage  something :  — 
S'pose    I    be  judge    and  you  be   clerk,  eh?" 

" 'Sht,   'sht,   Jim  —  these    other  fellows  '11  hear  us." 

"  I  think,"  continued  Jim,  "  that  I  should  surprise  'em 
with  a  little  justice.  What  a  lluttering  there  would  be  ! 
But  s'pose  we  be  special  constables  for  the  camp 
ground,   eh  ?  " 

Camp   ground   again  ! 

"Oh  —  certainly  —  I'm  going  with  the  old  man — private 
secretary — do  n't  let   on    about   it — it  's   first  rate." 

"I   think   I  should   like    that   place." 

"  But  Jim,   you   can  "t   WTite." 

"No  —  but  I  can  make  my  mark.  You  ought  to  see 
some  of  the  marks  I  have  made,"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand,  which    Derwent   shrunk   away  from. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  163 

"  But  if  you  go,  you  '11  take  me,  Harry  ?  I  've  got  a 
fine  nose  —  I  could  start  the  game  for  you.  I  should  be 
lonesome  here,  without  you" — laying  his  arm  on  Derwent's 
shoulder — "I  '11  be  your  secretary,  he!  he!  we  'd  show  'em. 
So   you've   sold  your   gun?" 

"Not  exactly  sold  it.  I  let  a  fellow  take  it  on  trial; 
but  I  can  get  it  back,  Jim,"  he  said,  attempting  a  sickly 
smile,   for  Jim's    arm   pressed   heavily. 

"  And  then  we  '11  have  one  more  day's  shooting,  eh  ? 
before   we   turn   secretaries." 

"Yes  —  I  do  n't  know  —  perhaps  he  won't  give  it  up  — 
and  I  suppose  until  election,  I  shall  be  so  driven  that  I 
sha'  n't   have  a  minute  to  spare." 

Haskill  had  never  been  so  urgent  for  society  before. 
There  was  something  uncertain  and  dreadful,  for  an  in- 
stant, in  his  eyes ;  for  Derwent  felt  that  they  were  upon 
him.  Did  he  suspect  —  or  was  it  only  the  distempered  and 
heated  imagination  of  Derwent?  Would  Jim  entice  him 
off  to  murder  him  ?  or  perhaps,  even  there  he  might,  with 
one  gripe  throttle  him  —  choke — augh  —  death  was  nothing; 
but  fear!  oh  fear,  was  a  horrible  tyrant.  And  there  —  in 
the  broad  daylight — ^ among  men,  he  mouthed,  and  beckoned, 
and  threatened  with  his  bony  hands  —  until  Derwent's  knees 
shook  under  him,  and  he  would  have  called  for  help  from 
the  heavy  arm  which  lay  upon  him;  but  his  fine  musical 
voice  had  lost  its  compass  —  even  one  sound  was  impos- 
sible. 

"What's  the  matter — you   aint   sick?" 

Derwent  nodded  his  head;  and  as  Jim  stepped  on  the 
doorsill  and  called  for  some  brandy,  Derwent  might  have 
heard  that  same  low  chuckle  — for  Jim  never  laughed  — 
which  indicated  any  thing  else,  as  well  as  joy.  But  he 
felt  the  bony  fingers  at  his  throat — and   saw   the    mocking 


164  COTTAGES     AND 

mouths,  and  the  snake-like  eyes  —  and  yet  he  could  not, 
and  dared   not   run. 

Brandy  revived  him  —  and  he  no  longer  felt  the  demo- 
niac current  passing  from  Jim's  arm  —  destroying,  paraly- 
zing soul  and  body.  When  he  got  up,  and  said  he  would 
go  home,  Jim  walked  by  his  side,  and  would  have  helped 
him,  and  cared  for  him,  but  Derwent  laughed  the  whole 
thing  off,  and  had  eaten  something  —  'twas  a  cramp — out 
late    last  night. 

As  they  reached  Derwent's  house,  Jim  said  to  him,  "sup- 
pose, then,  you  get  your  gun  and  go  up  the  hill,  and  to- 
morrow"—  but  Derwent  had  more  cramp,  and  shut  out 
the  rest  of  the  proposition  —  resolving,  moreover,  to  take 
counsel  of  his  father.  Somebody  he  must  have,  who  could 
care  enough  for  him  to  share  his  fears — perhaps  to  dissi- 
pate them. 


COTTAGELIFE.  165 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

Fifty  times  a  day  after  Ned's  departure  did  Grace  think 
of  him.  He  had  always  been  with  her  —  had  occupied  a 
place  in  her  life,  which  was  now  vacant — and  it  must 
be  confessed,  she  would  have  owned  it  herself — she  felt  his 
loss.  Five  miles?  he  might  as  well  have  been  away  five 
hundred.  In  the  great  trials  and  occurrences  of  life,  one 
can  be  self  sustained  —  the  great  things  are  themselves  en- 
grossing— but  daily  and  hourly  —  when  one  wishes  advice, 
or  sympathy,  or  hope,  or  caution,  or  —  a  horse  saddled  — 
then  a  friend   is  desirable,  and  so  Grace  found  it. 

She  wanted  some  one  to  talk  to,  who  was  willing  and 
ready  to  hear  her;  and  what  was  more,  to  reply;  to  recognize 
that  what  she  said  was  something,  however  little  or  trifling. 
She  would  say  to  herself — "  I  can't  always  be  thinking  of 
politics  with  Uncle  Tom,  or  poring  over  the  causes  and 
remedies  of  social  evils  with  Uncle  John.  I  am  determined 
that  I  will  not  do  my  duty  all  the  time.  I  detest  duty — 
(a  fib!) — this  living  up  in  the  sky  and  looking  down  upon 
the  trifles  and  '  every  days '  of  life,  is  very  sublime  and 
elevated  —  but  dreadful  cold.  I  'm  not  an  angel,  and  I 
do  n't  intend  to  be.  Is  this  beautiful  moonlight  made  for 
angels  ?  " 

She  might  have  made  herself  very  unhappy,  but  Uncle 
Tom   coming  in,  asked  — 

"Where  is  Ned?" 

This  was  a  week  or  two  after  he   had  left. 


166 


COTTAGES     AND 


"1   don't  know— I'm   not   his  keeper!" 

Uncle  T^m  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise,  when  Grace 
burst  into  a  laugh,  saying  — 

"  Why  Uncle  Tom,  have  you  forgotten  that  he  has  gone 
to   work  with  Dermott  ?  " 

"True  —  he  has.  I  wanted  him  yesterday  —  and  now  I 
wish  he   was  here,  to  go  to   Mr.  Scranton  for  me." 

"Can't  I  go?" 

"We  must  get  Ned  back,"  the  old  man  continued — "I 
want   him  about   me,    I   suppose,  eh  ? " 

Uncle   John,  who  had  come  in,  said  — 

"  Ned  kept  out  of  his  own  way  and  out  of  yours  while 
he  was  here,  so  that  you  were  not  put  in  mind  of  his  ex- 
istence  every  hour  by  breaking  your  shins  over  him." 

"Won't  you  persuade  him  to  come  back,  Uncle  John?" 
asked  Grace. 

"No  — I   will  not." 

"  You  like  him  Uncle  John,  and  why  not  wish  him  to 
be   here  ?  " 

"  Because  I  believe,  and  so  does  he,  that  he  is  doing 
better  where  he  is  —  that  he  is  learning  —  will  get  more 
in  six  months  there,  than  he  could  get  in  six  years  at 
a   college,  where   he    would  most  likely  learn  to  be  a  fool." 

"  Ned   won't  be  a  fool  any  where,"   replied   Grace. 

"Let  him  pursue  his  own  course  —  he  is  now  old 
enough,"  continued  Uncle  John,  "  and  when  he  has  learnt 
what  he  can  from  Dermott,  he  will  come  back  and  will  be 
the  better  for  it.  He  is  not  lazy,  and  will  work  along  to 
something.  I  do  n't  mean  that  he  will  make  a  noise  in 
the  world ;  but  he  will  be  something  to  himself;  will  be  and 
not  sceni.''^ 

"Now  Uncle  John,  I  do  n't  believe  it  is  the  best  way  to 
let  Ned  alone,  or  any  of  us  young  ones.     He  wants  some- 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  1(57 

body  to  tell  him  that  what  he  thinks  may  be  right  is 
right.  It's  hard  enough  at  best — and  you  ought  to  go 
and   see    him,   I  think.     I  wish  I  was  a  man." 

"  Do  n't  get  into  a  fever,  Grace.  I  will  do,  and  have 
done,  what  I  can  ;  but  birds  molt  their  feathers,  serpents 
shed  their  skins,  chickens  break  their  shells  themselves,  and 
canriot  be  much  assisted.  So  it  is  with  Ned;  and  more- 
over, if  he  can't  get  out  of  his  trouble  himself,  he  had 
better  go  to  the  dogs  —  and  some  whining  will  be  saved." 
"Ned  never  whined,"  said  Grace,  "and  I  do  believe  after 
all,  that  at  the  proper  times,  every  one  needs  help.  Many 
a  one  has  gone  to  the  dogs,  as  you  say,  for  the  want  of 
it,  or  has  become  cold  and  savage  —  and  I  know  that  is 
not  agreeable," 

"  To  say  and  do  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time,  Gracie, 
is  right  —  but  is   not   so   simple  and   easy  a  matter." 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  somewhere  else  and  talk,"  said 
Uncle  Tom,  "for  I  am  trying  to  read  this  newspaper." 

Uncle  John,  as  he  lighted  a  segar,  said — "Your  Gazette 
must  be  stupider  than  usual?"  while  Grace  stepped  out 
into  the  moonlight.  "  How  useless,"  she  thought,  "  will 
these  walks  be  that  I  was  so  careful  to  keep  clean.  One 
of  them  will  be  enough  for  me."  Then  she  remembered 
that  her  rabbits  had  not  been  fed,  and  that  in  truth  no- 
thing had  been  done  with  good  will.  Weak  and  foolish 
she  seemed,  caring  for  nothing  for  itself — but  because 
some  one  else  might  find  pleasure  in  it ;  a  poor,  weak, 
silly  girl ! 

Uncle  John  came  to  her,  and  drawing  her  arm  within 
his,  walked  on.  They  went  to  one  of  the  shaded  seats 
which  overlooked  the  river,  now  lying  broad  and  smooth 
before  them,  and  the  whisper  of  its  ripple  was  sweet  to 
Grace. 


16^  C  O  T  T  A  G  E  S     A  N  D 

Uncle  John,  if  a  little  hard,  was  always  kind  and  young; 
and  he  led  Grace  on  to  a  more  quiet,  healthy  way  of 
feeling — and  when  she  went  to  her  room,  she  was  better 
and  happier,  and  thought  of  the  evening  with  pleasure  — 
although  she  did  not  like  segar  smoke  and  moonlight 
together. 

Some  ten  days  had  passed,  and  nothing  had  been  seen 
of  Ned.     Grace  determined  to  ride  over  and  see  him. 

John  seemed  really  glad  when  she  appeared  once  more 
at  the  stable.     He   saddled    her  horse  quickly,  saying — 

'*  Since  Ned  went  away,  horses  do  n't  seem  to  be  very 
val'able.  I  do  n't  see  what  we  '11  do  with  Ned's  horse  — 
he  wants  work,  and  do  n't  get  it.  I  've  pulled  some  hair 
out  of  his  tail ;  and  I  expect  you  'd  better  let  me  ride  with 
you   in   order  to  keep  him  in  order  —  after  a  sort." 

"Not  to-day,  John  —  I   don't  want   to    ride  fast." 

"Here,  Miss  Gracie  —  now  put  your  foot  in  my  hand, 
and   I  '11   lift  you  in  as  easy  as  A  spells  Annexation." 

She  rode  well,  in  the  admiring  eyes  of  John — and  the 
spirit  of  the  horse,  who  had  not  been  used  for  a  few  days, 
communicated  itself  to  her  —  so  that  as  she  swept  past 
Uncle    Tom,  at   a  rapid  trot,  he  felt  young  again   himself. 

But  for  Ned.  He  had  taken  hold  with  some  spirit  and 
determination  at  his  new  life;  wishing  to  satisfy  himself,  as 
well  as  Dermott,  who  was  a  hard-working,  sensible  man; 
and  although  it  was  not  the  most  interesting  part  of  the 
year  for  gardening,  he  found  enough  to  occupy  both  body 
and  mind.  But  it  seemed  strange  to  him  that  the  family 
so  rarely  called  upon  him.  Remembering  that  he  was  tired 
at  night,  they  might  have  supposed  he  would  find  the  walk 
long. 

"Out  of  sight  out  of  mind,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"No  doubt   they    have    new    friends    about   them?"    and  he 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  109 

turned  in  upon  himself,  asking,  "  Why  should  I  be  any  thing 
to  Grace  —  or  to  any  one  ?  What  am  I  ?  What  have  1  that 
any  one  should  like  ?  I  have  no  claim.  There  is  no 
reason  why  they  should  wish  to  see  me  !  On  the  con- 
trary, they  should  be  glad  that  one  drag  is  removed  ! " 
Now,  although  this  was  very  unkind,  Ned  worked  himself 
into  such  a  state,  that  he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  sting 
himself  to   death  like   the  scorpion. 

Grace  had  ridden  on  until  she  and  her  horse  were  both 
more  tranquil  than  when  they  started;  and  she  wondered 
how  Ned  had  spent  the  week,  and  whether  he  was  satisfied ; 
and  what  could  he  have  done  with  himself,  alone,  in  these 
fine  evenings.  'T  was  strange  that  he  had  not  been  over 
to  see  them?  Certainly,  if  he  had  cared  any  thing  about 
them,  he  would  have  been;  and,  certainly —  Grace 
stopped  her  horse  —  she  hesitated  whether  or  not  to  go  on. 
If  he  wanted  to  see  them,  he  would  be  over  on  Sunday? 
when  suddenly  she  heard  some  one  say  — 

"  You  'd  better  go  on." 

She  looked  up,  and  saw  Jim  Haskill  coming  toward  her 
from  among  the  trees,  and  she  colored,  for  it  seemed  he 
knew  her   thoughts. 

"  You  're   not  half  way  yet,  and  he  '11  want  to  see  you." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so,  Jim." 

"Oh,  —  he's  young  yet  —  he  hasn't  been  blasted  and 
cursed  long  enough  to  stand  alone,  and  curse  and  blast 
back." 

"What  good  comes  of  doing  that,  Jim?  Curse  away, 
if  it  will  do  any  good;  but  not,  if  it  makes  one's  self 
miserable." 

"  It  keeps   me  in    tune  —  I   ca  n't  wait  for  hell   to  burn 
'em  up.      I   must  begin   it  now." 
22 


170  COTTAGES     AND 

"Why,  Jim,  you  used  to  be  quieter  than  this;  —  what's 
the  matter,  —  who  has  set  upon  you, —  none  of  us,  surely?" 

"  No." 

"Then  don't  curse,  and  frighten  me,  Jim;  but  come 
here,  closer,  and  tell  me  how  you  get  along,  and  how 
Bessy  is.      1   mean   to   go   up   and   see   her.'' 

"You   won't  see    her!" 

"Why    not?" 

"She   aint  there   now." 

"No?    where   is   she?" 

"Dead!" 

"Dead!  Bessy  dead  —  how?  —  why,  Jim,  you  arc  crazy  — 
or   trying  to   frighten    me." 

"  It 's   true,"   he   said. 

"Why,   tell   me   how  did  she   die,   and   when?" 

"The   wolves   killed   her  — " 

"  Oh,  Jim,  why  will  you  try  to  frighten  me  ?  There 
are   no   wolves   here." 

"  Yes,  there  are.  I  saw  one  in  your  garden.  I  'm  on 
the  trail   of  one   now ; "    and   Jim  chuckled   his   low  laugh. 

Grace  began  now  to  be  really  frightened,  for  he  seemed 
to  her  much  more  savage  than  when  she  had  seen  him 
before;  but,  perhaps,  he  was  in  drink?  At  any  rate,  she 
considered   it  safest   to   go   on   quietly. 

"  Well,  Jim,  you  must  come  down  and  see  me  now 
and  then,  for  I  do  n't  like  the  idea  of  your  staying  up 
in  the   hill   alone." 

"  I  sha  n't  stay  long  by  myself.  As  soon  as  I  get  the 
scalp   of  this  beast,  I  'm  off." 

"Why  don't  you  kill  him,  and  be  done,  —  you  never 
miss?" 

"  He    keeps   close    to   his   hole ;  —  I  'vc  let   him   smell   my 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  171 

track; — I  do  n't  want  him  too  easy.  You  should  see 
him  skulk  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  and  his  tongue 
hanging."     Again  Jim  chuckled. 

Grace  was  glad  when  Dermott's  garden  was  in  sight, 
and   involuntarily   quickened   her   horse. 

"Go  on,"  said 'Jim,  "I  can  keep  up;"  and  he  swung 
along  by  her  side.  "  But  do  n't  say  any  thing  about  the 
wolves;  perhaps  I'll  bring  you  the  scalp  of  this  one. 
There's  Ned;  he  do  n't  seem  to  see  you,  but  he  does, — 
good   bye  —  and   be   careful   of — wolves." 

There  was  possibly  a  slight  chilliness  in  Ned's  manner, 
but  it  vanished  before  the  warmth  of  Grace's  greeting. 
There  was  much  to  be  talked  over.  Ned's  confidence  in 
himself  and  in  his  friends  revived,  and  he  was  quite  ready 
to  act  upon  Grace's  suggestion,  —  that  he  should  return 
with  her,  and  spend  the  night  with  Uncle  Tom  and  Uncle 
John. 

She  told  him,  as  he  walked  by  her  side,  of  her  meeting  with 
Jim  Haskill,  and  his  story  seemed  strange  and  inexplicable 
to  Ned  also ;  for  it  must  be  remembered  that  nothing  was 
known  by  the  public  of  Bessy's  abduction.  As  they  neared 
the  house,  just  at  the  approach  of  evening,  they  met  Der- 
went,  riding  hastily  toward  the  village.  He  spoke  with 
them,  but  with  less  confidence  than  formerly,  which  Grace 
attributed  to  her  having  declined  his  proposal;  for  this  was 
the  first  time  they  had  met  since  that  affair.  The  way  had 
not  seemed  long  to  Ned,  and  he  was  less  fatigued  than 
usual,  when,  after  after  a  pleasant  evening  with  his  old 
uncles    and    Grace,    he    went    to    his    sleep. 


172  c  0  '1'  T  A  c;  i:  s    and 


CIIAPTini    XXIX. 

For  some  time,  Uncle  Tom  had  been  expecting  to  hear 
IVoni  Wainwright,  his  agent,  in  the  city,  and  to  receive 
from  him  various  papers  and  certificates,  as  to  the  changes 
of  investments  upon  wliich  they  had  agreed.  The  neglect 
seemed  strange — and  as  the  matters  were  of  consequence, 
he  had  it  in  contemplation  to  visit  the  city  again.  lie 
said  to  Uncle  John,  on  Wednesday  of  this  week,  of  which 
I  write — 

''  I  am  disposed  to  offer  you  five  hundred  dollars,  John, 
if  you  will  finish  my  house  for  me.  I  mean,  if  you  will 
take  the  wrangling  off  my  hands.  1  do  not  lind  it  so  easy, 
or  pleasant,  as  I  expected.  If  there  is  any  wrong  way,  they 
are  sure  to  find  it  out;  and  then  I  am  told  that  it  is  im- 
possible  for  it  to  have  been  done  in    any  other  way." 

"  You  should  have  engaged  me  in  the  first  place,  if  you 
wished  to  save  money   and  vexation." 

"  I  did  n't.  I  wanted  to  try  it  myself.  Now  I  am  satis- 
fied  that  it  is  not  my  vocation." 

"  I  suspect,  Tom,  that  you  are  becoming  more  interested 
in  other  matters:  this  being  the  candidate  at  the  election, 
for  instance." 

"Well,  I  confess,  that  having  begun  in  it.  1  should  like 
to  carry  it  through." 

"Especially,"  said  Uncle  John,  "if  Dcrwent  is  now  at 
work  to  secure  the  nomination  for  himself?" 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  173 

"  Yea,  there  is  something  in  that.  1  do  n't  choose  to  be 
a   nose  of  wax   in    any   man's  hand." 

"  Well  —  do  n't  lose  your  integrity,  your  temper,  and 
your   money,  too,    about  it." 

Mr.  Scranton  came  in,  in  his  hearty  way,  and  plunged 
headlong  into  the  matter  of  politics: — "There  's  a  good 
deal  to  be  done  now,  between  this  and  the  nomination. 
You  ought  to  come  out  with  an  address,  or  take  the 
stump.  Then,  sir,  as  the  Methodists  are  anxious  to  get  the 
line  of  the  new  railroad  to  pass  through  their  large  tract, 
it  would  be  well  to  intimate  to  Mr.  Thomas,  that  you 
shall  do  what  you  can  for  it.  And,  sir,  the  Irish  and 
German  vote  are  both  large  in  this  district.  It  is  well  to 
look  forward  with  them  to  the  foundation  of  happy  republics 
in  their  homes  !  And  the  Native  vote  —  above  all  things, 
insist  with  Mr.  Meeker  upon  the  necessity  for  protecting 
our  shores  against  the  incursions  of  ignorance  and  poverty. 
As  to  free  trade  and  protection  —  there  are  arguments  on 
both  sides.  The  inviolability  of  the  homestead,  of  course, 
you  can  favor.  All  this  ought  to  be  done  —  and  above  all 
things  —  write  no  letters  —  " 

"  By  the  Lord  God  ! "  exclaimed  Uncle  Tom,  "  having 
done   these   things,   I   should  be   worse  than   a  thief." 

Uncle  John  laughed  out;  and  Mr.  Scranton,  somewhat 
surprised,  protested  that  all  this  must  not  be  taken  liter- 
ally, but  that  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  be  elected 
without  some  of  this   machinery. 

"  Then  it  may  remain  impossible,"  said  Uncle  Tom,  "  for 
I  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  For  sixty  years  I  have 
borne  a  good  character  —  and  there  are  many  here  who 
know  me.  If  there  are  enough  men  of  influence  to  back 
me   with    the    people     who    do    not    know    me,    and    they 


174  COTTAGES     AND 

believe  that  I  can  do  as  well  for  them  as  anj-  one.  1  shall  be 
glad  to  serve  —  not   otherwise." 

"  By  letting  things  go  in  this  way,  none  but  the  intri- 
guers," said    Uncle  John,   "can  be  returned." 

"  It  is  necessary  to  sacrifice  something,"  said  Mr.  Scran- 
ton,  "  to  the  infernal  deities,  and  to  keep  a  man  like  Dcr- 
went,  for  instance,  from  making  laws  for  us.  With  such 
rulers  the  country  must  go  down." 

"  The  sooner  a  country  which  chooses  such  rulers  goes 
down,  the  better,"  replied  Uncle  Tom.  "  I  will  sacrifice 
neither  my  self  respect,  my  honor,  nor  my  honesty.  No, 
sir, — the  party  managers  mistake  the  people  in  believing 
only  in  their  baseness  and  corruption.  Let  them  give  up 
their  expediency,  and  come  out  boldly  for  an  honest  and 
honorable  candidate,  and  the  quiet  men  who  leave  the 
work  bench  to  vote,  will  soon  appreciate  and  second  them. 
The  people  are  not  fools  !  And  the  wire  pullers  who  act 
upon   that  belief,  will   have   to   smart   for   it  by  and  bye." 

"Here  you  are,"  said  Grace,  entering  upon  them,  "talk- 
ing the  eternal  politics,  I  '11  warrant  —  but  where  's  the  use 
of  getting  into  a  passion — the  world  goes  on  its  way, 
and  its  a  great  deal  wiser  to  go  along  with  it.  Any  man 
who  stands  still  to  check  the  tide,  will  be  overwhelmed 
and  obliterated  without  a  thought.  And  now,  Mr.  Scran- 
ton,  that  I  have  delivered  my  speech,  what  do  you  think 
of  my   new  dress  ?     I  made   it  myself." 

"Well  now,  that  is  surprising,"  said  he,  taking  hold  of 
it.  "  I  like  that.  You  are  getting  to  be  like  country  folks 
fast.  It  's  a  pretty  pink,  I  think  ?  "  He  could  not  tell  one 
color  from  another. 

"There  you   mistake.     It's   blue!" 

"  Well,   30  it  is,  and  very    neat." 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  175 

"  Mistaken   again.     Green,  sir." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is  green." 

"  No,   it 's  your  eyes,  Mr.  Scranton." 

"  Really,  I  do  believe  you  are  making  a  fool  of  me,"  he 
said,  shaking  his  finger  at  her — "  I  am  glad  I  am  not  a 
young  man." 

"So  am  I,"  she  replied,  "for  then,  perhaps,  you  would 
make   a  fool  of  me." 


17G  COTTAGES     AND 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

A  DETAILED  account  of  the  interview  between  father  and 
son,  which  grew  out  of  the  son  requiring  money  from  the 
father,  for  purposes  constitutionally  called  "  secret  service," 
and  which,  by  the  way,  is  too  common  to  excite  surprise, 
would  not,  probably,  be  very  interesting. 

The  elder  Derwent  improved  the  occasion  to  remonstrate 
with  the  younger  Derwent,  in  terms  hallowed  by  long  use ; 
among  which  occurred  "grey  hairs," — "sorrow,"  and 
"grave;"  —  truly  affecting  to  the  unsophisticated  mind, — 
but   to   which  the   younger   Derwent   only    said: 

"I  have  heard  all  that  before,"  —  not  at  all  a  proper 
reply,  as  all  must  admit;  for  every  parent  understands 
that  good  advice  cannot  be  too  often  reiterated,  —  although 
the  "  iteration "  should  become,  at  last,  what  Shakspeare, 
in   his  quaint   way,  calls  "damnable." 

"  At  this  particular  juncture,  too,"  said  the  elder,  "  when 
I  require  all  the  inlluence  I  can  command  —  yours  as  well 
as  others." 

"  My  juncture,"  said  the  younger,  knowing  that  the 
money  must  come,  "is  of  a  peculiar  kind  —  quite  particular." 

This  was  an  acid,  applied  to  the  alkali  which  the  elder 
had  been  using,  which  produced  effervescence  and  explo- 
sion; so  that  the  elder  had  an  irresistible  propensity  to 
use  strong  language  to  the  younger,  —  improper,  on  his 
part,   as    all    must   admit. 

But,  gathering  boldness  from  desperation,  Derwent  gave 
a  short   account    of  his    affair    with  r)essy   Flaskill.    and    the 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  I77 

fear  which  he  lived  in,  lest  Jim  knew  of  it,  and  was 
watching  his  time.  The  elder  saw  in  a  moment  that  it 
was   essential   to   have    the   whole   thing   hushed    up. 

"So  near  at  home,"  he  said,  "'twas  the  most  unac- 
countable thing  —  not   worthy   of  a   child,   or   a   fool!" 

Perhaps  not ;  but  he  set  himself  to  work  to  prevent  the 
damage  which  might  arise.  He  sent  for  one  of  his  friends. 
An  ambitious  man  —  and  industrious,  was  Peter  Williams. 
He  was  determined  to  rise,  and  he  had  found  that  Der- 
went  was  his  man  —  had  work  to  do,  and  sometimes 
dirty  work.  For  this,  Peter  had  a  proclivity; — there  is  no 
accounting  for  it  —  his  taste  led  him  that  way;  his  cold, 
blue  eye  never  warmed,  but  his  mouth  had  a  perpetual 
sunshine  of  blandness ;  his  long  upper  lip  stretched  itself 
over  his  teeth,  clam-like  and  thin.  And,  oh,  how  willing 
he  was  to  work, — to  write  reports,  —  addresses;  —  to  do 
what  other  people  were  too  lazy  to  do;  and  every  day 
he  gained  in  position,  in  power, —  and  many  persons 
thought  him  a  trusty  fellow;  —  and  he  was  truly  respect- 
able, for   his   clothes    and   his   gig   were  unexceptionable. 

Now,  Peter  Williams  was  to  go  to  the  house,  some  ten 
miles  away,  where  Bessy  had  been  left,  to  see  her,  and  to 
buy  her  off,  in  case  she  knew  any  thing  coherent  in  the 
matter — not  otherwise:  —  was  to  sound  Jim,  and  take  such 
steps  as  the  occasion  required,  —  to  pay  him  money,  —  to 
get  his  confidence, —  perhaps  to  persuade  him  to  take  le- 
gal measures,  should  he  be  exasperated  against  Derwent  — 
thus  to  postpone  the  affair  until  after  the  election,  and 
also  to  secure  Derwent  against  personal  harm,  by  provid- 
ing another  vent  for  Haskill's  vengeance.  Very  good 
plans   all   these   were,   one   would   think. 

Peter   Williams    was   vain    of    the    horse    and    gig  —  and 

they    were   good  —  which   he   owned    jointly  with    a    fellow 
23 


178  COTTAGES     AND 

attorney.  He  rode  onward  very  pleasantly,  until  he  came 
into  a  by  road,  not  much  used,  which  led  up  among  the 
hills,  where  the  rains  were  the  principal  menders  and 
makers.  His  placidity,  as  well  as  his  bones,  were  shaken 
here  —  for  he  feared  for  his  gig  —  and  he  inwardly  re- 
solved that,  when  he  became  a  law  maker,  all  the  roads 
in   that  county   should   be   good. 

An  excellent,  practical  application  suggests  itself  here, 
which  it  i.s  hoped  the  newspapers  will  spread  abroad, 
other  things  having  failed,  viz  ,  that  every  person  elected 
to  office  shall  be  thoroughly  taken  over  the  public  roads 
in  his  district,  in  his  own  carriage,  especially  if  it  be  a 
good  one,  before  taking  his  seat  and  dignity.  It  is  be- 
lieved that  he  w'ould  not  sit  easy  until  the  roads  were 
mended. 

The  house  at  which  Williams  stopped,  and  fastened  his 
horse,  was  dreary  enough,  in  externals.  The  w^indows 
were  mended  with  a  glass  of  "  home  manufacture,"  com- 
pounded of  hats  and  rags;  —  the  grass  plat  was  tangled 
with  briars  and  crabs;  —  there  w^as  an  air  about  it  of 
former  glory,  which  had  apparently  vanished  before  the 
visits  of  sherifls.  Williams  felt  for  a  small  pistol  which  he 
carried,  for  a  coarse-haired  slut  only  appeared  to  welcome 
him.  He  rapped  and  knocked,  and,  finally,  received  a 
question  from  an  old,  grey-eyed  woman,  who,  putting  her 
head  through  an  upper  window,  said, — 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"  If  you  please,  madam,  to  see  Bessy  Haskill,  who,  I  am 
told—" 

"  You  wo  n't  see  any  such  here ;  you  'd  better  be  off — 
tramp  !  ' 

The   dog,   considering    this    a    sufficient    hint,  commenced 


COTTAGE    LIFE.  170 

proceedings  on  her  own  account,  and  seized  him  sharply 
by   the    leg. 

Williams  shot  her  dead  on  the  spot,  but — sad  to  relate  — 
his  horse,  frightened  by  the  report,  broke  away  from  the 
moss-grown  paling,  and  galloped  down  the  hill,  gig  and  all. 
He  ran,  frantically,  after  it,  shouting  whoh!  at  the  top  of 
his  voice;  higher  than  which  could  have  been  heard  the 
screech  of  the  woman;  but  he  only  heard  the  crashing  of 
the  boughs,  and  saw  the  splintering  of  those  beautiful 
spokes.  Overwhelmed  with  this  result,  he  neglected  his 
own  way,  and  fell  into  the  dirt,  over  a  fallen  tree,  splitting 
his  coat  to  his  shoulders; — such  dreadful  bad  language  as 
he    then   used  ! 

But  Bessy  was  not  there.  As  was  to  be  expected,  she 
had  soon  slipped  away  from  such  a  home,  —  unlike  the  free 
life  in  which  she  had  grown  up.  The  rains,  and  winds, 
and  trees,  and  birds,  were  her  friends;  —  she  knew  them, 
and  they  never  laughed  at  her  strangeness,  or  foolishness. 
On  the  contrary,  as  the  branches  drooped  toward  her,  and 
rustled  their  leaves  in  the  wind,  she  heard  and  understood 
their  whisperings;  and  she  knew  their  names,  —  at  least 
she  had  names  for  all  the  oaks  and  chesnuts ;  not,  perhaps, 
strictly  botanical,  but  fanciful  and  fit. 

She  wandered  out  into  the  starry  night,  and  the  wind 
swept  the  fine  hair  from  her  forehead,  cooling  the  feverish- 
ness  produced  by  a  few  days  of  confinement.  She  ran 
swiftly  along  for  a  few  moments,  until  she  reached  the 
shelter  of  the  woods ;  for  the  darkness  was  not  darkness  to 
her  —  the  way  seemed  plain.  Once  there,  the  indefinite 
sense  of  insecurity,  with  which  she  seemed  to  have  been  pos- 
sessed, passed  away,  and  she  laid  herself  along  the  mossy 
bark  of  a  fallen  tree,  and  sang  those  little  scraps  of  song, 
which  were  the  language  of  her  weak  and  wandering  fancy. 


ISO  COTTAGES     AND 

Then  phe  was  silent  for  a  while,  and  one  might  have 
thought  that  she  slept ;  but  her  face  was  turned  to  the  sky, 
and  her  eyes  passed  along  the  sparkling  worlds,  now  and 
then  obscured  by  a  fleecy  cloud.  She  chanted  again,  in  a 
low  voice  — 

"  There  's  room  above  — 

In  the  dccj),  deep  sky  — 
For  the  heart  that 's  still, 

For  the  dewy  eye. 
T  see  my  star, 

Ha  —  ha  —  liow  bright, 
How  softly  it  steps 

In  the  sweet,  clear  night." 

The  cry  of  the  tree  frog  broke  in  upon  the  stillness,  and 
caught  her  ear;  she  got  up,  and  in  a  few  moments,  when 
the  cry  was  repeated,  went  to  the  tree  and  took  it  in  her 
hand.  As  she  put  her  finger  between  its  glittering  eyes, 
she   said  — 

"  T  wish  no  storms 
T6  break  on  earth. 
Bruising  tlie  l)lossoms 
Of  sunshine  the  biitli." 

The  little  creature  again  sounded  his  watery,  shattering 
note  —  even  when  lying  in  her  hand,  so  little  fear  did  she 
excite  — 

"  Ha  —  ha  —  I  see. 
You  rogue,  that  you  will; 
'T  is  Trip  who  docs  it, 
He  pinches  you  still,  — 

Ah,  Trip!" 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  181 

The    low  muttering   of  the    thunder    rolled    up    from    the 
distant  south;    and  again  and  again,  as  she  still  sang  — 

"I  hear  you  piling 

Your  clouds  on  high  — 
And  soon  you  '11  rattle 

Across  the  sky. 
There  's  water  enough, 

Enough  for  years, 
In  the  rivers  of  earth 

Which  flow  with  tears." 

The  clouds  now  rapidly  spread  and  covered  the  heavens, 
and  the  gusts  began  to  sweep  through  the  trees.  She 
placed  the  frog  upon  the  tree,  and  again  laid  herself  upon 
the  decaying  trunk;  —  the  thunders  broke  more  and  more 
quickly,  and  she  laughed  low,  with  childish  delight,  as  the 
sharp  lightnings  chained  together  the  murky  and  heavy 
clouds.  The  little  owl,  which  shook  in  the  wind  upon  the 
high,  bare  branch,  laughed  his  low  scream,  and  flew  away 
deeper  into  the  forest.  She,  too,  laughed,  —  and  louder  as 
the  storm  arose,  —  and  held  out  her  arms,  as  if  to  wel- 
come the  spirits,  who  purified  the  atmosphere  of  the  world ; 
and  when  the  lightning  crashed  through  the  strong  branches, 
she  shouted  and  laughed  with  the  thunders,  and  knew  no- 
thing of  fear. 

But  the  storm  soon  exhausted  itself,  and  then  Bessy 
slept  sweetly  through  the  warm  night,  and  dreamed  plea- 
sant things,  of  which  she  would  whisper,  as  she  slept  — 
as  coherently  as  when  awake,  for  her  life  was  a  con- 
tinual dream.  She  walked  through  the  woods  in  the 
morning,  when  every  leaf  glittered  with  the  rain  drops, 
and  searched  for  the  crab  apples,  and  the  winter-green 
berries,   and   the   sassafras;    for   hunger   always   comes,  and 


Igii  COTTAGKS     AND 

surely  to  the  homeless  and  wanderer.  She  went  on,  aim- 
less, through  the  woods,  —  turning  toward  the  flower,  or 
toadstool,  or  bird,  as  either  one  impressed  her  quick  and 
shifting  eye.  Sometimes  she  came  into  the  vicinity  of 
houses,  and  mvn,  but  never  near  enough  to  be  seen;  and 
always,  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  she  drew  nearer  and  nearer 
to   her   old   haunts. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  183 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

During  the  few  days  preceding  the  convention,  many 
persons  had  occasion  to  call  at  Squire  Dervvent's  office, 
and  among  them,  as  upon  another  memorable  time,  came 
Satan,  also.  There  was,  however,  no  confusion;  and  any 
one  not  aware  how  spontaneous  and  free  our  elections 
are,  would  have  supposed  that  these  men  had  come  by 
special  appointment,  to  take  counsel  together,  for  the  ben- 
efit of  their  country,  and  —  themselves. 

'T  was  the  most  natural  thing  that  Squire  Derwent, 
owning  land  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Methodist  tract,  before 
spoken  of,  should  wish  to  confer  with  Mr.  Thomas,  their 
acting  man,  upon  the  proper  steps  for  benefiting  and  im- 
proving in  that  section,  whether  by  railroads  or  otherwise. 
There  were  many  compliments  and  friendly  assurances 
on  both  sides  —  and  their  meeting  and  parting  forcibly 
recalled   the   words   of  the  "old   song"  — 

"  How  sweet  and  jDleasant  't  is  to  see, 
Brethren   and  friends  agree." 

'T  was  clear  to  them  that  the  interests  of  the  road  re- 
quired the  road  to  be  run  so,  and  not  otherwise  —  that 
there  would  be  great  injustice  done  to  the  stockholders, 
should  the  demands  of  interested  parties  be  complied 
with,  't  was   clear  and  simple ! 

Mr.  Thomas  said,  also,  that  Mr.  Derwent  could,  no 
doubt,  be   of  great  service,   as   his  influence   and    acquaint- 


1 84  C  O  T  T  A  G  E  y     A  N  D 

ancc  ill  the  county  would  give  immense  weight,  and  that 
he,  Mr.  Thomas,  would  consider  it  a  personal  I'avor,  6cc. ; 
to  which  Mr.  Derwent  replied,  that  he  would  be  glad  to 
do  the  right  thing,  especially  as  it  would  do  him,  a  gen- 
tleman for  whom  he  had  a  great  respect,  a  favor  —  hav- 
ing no  doubt  that  he  would  be  glad  to  reciprocate.  Upon 
which,  Mr.  Thomas  shook  31r.  Derwent  by  the  hand,  and 
said  that  he  might  be  depended  upon.  And  Mr.  Der- 
went, also,  having  said  he  might  be  depended  upon,  they 
shook  hands  again  and  parted,  mutually  pleased,  and  mu- 
tually understood. 

Harry  saw  each  one  to  the  door,  remarking  with  great 
emphasis,  as  he  shook  him  by  the  hand  —  what  a  very 
fine  day  it  was  !  which  seemed  to  be  the  extent  of  his 
political   maneuvering. 

After  jNIr.  Thomas,  came  an  important  member  of  the 
convention  —  no  other  than  Mr.  Peter  Williams.  Blowing 
his   nose  severely,  and   winking  at  Mr.  Derwent,  he  said  — 

"  I  have  come  in,  sir,  at  the  suggestion  of  a  large  and 
respectable  portion  of  our  party,  to  ascertain  more  fully 
your  views  upon  one  or  two  points ;  the  first  is,  as  to 
the  extension  of  the  dyke.  It  is  well  known  to  you,  that 
a  large  number  of  the  masses,  who  live  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  this  low  ground,  are  subject  to  fevers,  agues,  and 
the  like  —  attributable  to  this  dyke  —  which  they  not  only 
wish  not  extended,  but  absolutely  destroyed,  that  the  water 
may  again  flow  over  the  marsh.  But  this,  sir,  will  allect 
vested  rights — the  rights  of  property  —  the  greatest  of  all 
rights,  if  I    may   say  so." 

"I  have  so  often,"  replied  Mr.  Derwent,  "expressed 
my  unaffected  preference  for  private  life,  that  I  regret  to 
be  again  called  on  to  make  these  sacrifices.  1  only  con- 
sent  in    case    no    other   fit    person    can   be   selected.      With 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  185 

regard  to  the  d3'ke,  I  am  clear  that  it  is  safe  to  abide 
by  the  compromises  of  the  statute,  which  secure  the  rights 
of  all.  But  it  is  an  important  subject,  and  I  may  say 
that  under  some  circumstances  I  might  feel  it  consistent 
with  my  duty,  not  to  disregard  what  I  should  consider  the 
expressed  will  of  my  constituents.  We  are  public  servants, 
sir"  —  (Peter  winked  again.) 

"The  other  point,"  said  Wilkins,  "is  —  whether  you  do, 
or  do  not,  believe  it  to  be  proper  for  persons  holding  office 
to  use  the  public  money,  honestly  you  will  understand, 
sir,  in  speculations  which  may  result  to  their  individual 
benefit?" 

"  Upon  this  point  1  am  right.  I  refer  you  to  my  past 
course,  in  which  you  will  easily  trace  a  consistent  line  of 
right,   from   which  I  never  swerved." 

"  I  may  assure  them  sir,  that  you  are  right,  and  may  be 
depended   upon  ? " 

"  You   may." 

They  then  laughed  slightly,  before  proceeding  to  more 
private  matters ;  but  the  laugh  was  repeated  in  a  chuckle, 
which  sounded  much  like  Jim  Haskill's.  Harry  had  es- 
caped at  sight  of  Jim,  who  therefore  walked  in  unan- 
nounced, and  presented  himself.  How  much  of  this  de- 
velopment of  political  maneuvering  he  may  have  heard, 
remains  unknown.  He  only  said,  as  he  sat  himself  on  the 
edge   of  a  high   chair  — 

"Funny  —  he,  he  —  good  story.  Squire.  You  do  beat  all 
with  your  jokes.  I  stopped  in  just  before  convention  to  see 
what  I   could   do.     You'll   want   help,  I  s'pose?" 

"  Certainly,  Jim,  I  shall  want  all  my  friends  to  show  their 
hands.  I  have  only  consented  to  the  use  of  my  name  at 
their  urgent   solicitation." 

Peter    Williams    here    interposed;    perhaps     to    save    his 
24 


18G  COTTAGHS     AND 

patron  from  fiirthrr  talk,  «aying  — "  I  have  been  hoping  to 
see  you  lor  some  days  past"  —  but  ]Mr.  Derwent  stopped 
him,    and    said  to  Jim  — 

"  1  am  f^lad  to  see  tiiat  you  intend  to  stand  my  friend. 
I    have  always  felt   that    I    could    depend    upon  you." 

" 'N'ou  know  that  'round  here,"  said  Jim,  "one  gets  no- 
thing for  nothing  about  "lection  time.  Some  of  us  get  as 
foxy  as  the    devil." 

"  Certainly,  Jim,  I  understand,  and  I  never  forget  my 
friends  !  " 

This  was  said  with  great  iiiipressiveness  by  Mr.  Derwent, 
as  he  held  out  his  hand.  .lim  took  no  notice  of  it,  how- 
ever, and  proceeded  — 

"  You  won't  be  very  likely  to  forget  me,  Squire :  and  it 's 
of  no  great  account  any  way.  But  Harry  and  I  have  iixed 
it  up.  We  are  going  together.  Wherever  he  goes,  I  go, 
eh  !  You  understand  ?  " 

Squire  Derwent  thinking  it  possible  that  they  had  had  an 
explanation,   was  willing  to  take  it  all   for  granted. 

"  It  's  ever  since  the  camp  meeting,"  Jim  went  on  to 
say,  "  that  we  have  been  hoping  that  something  would 
turn  up — and  now  that  it  has.  Squire,  you  can  depend 
upon    me." 

Mr.  Derwent  expressed  his  obligations,  and  Jim  took  up 
his  march,  enjoying  that  internal  delight  experienced  only 
by  politicians,  at  having  "  done "  old  Derwent,  as  he  called 
him. 


COTTAGE    LIFE.  igy 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

The  day  of  the  convention  came,  and  with  it  the  usual 
bustle  and  excitement.  From  all  quarters  the  people  came 
in,  for  it  was  a  holiday,  —  almost  the  only  one  which  we 
allow  ourselves.  There  was  to  be  speech  making  after 
the  nomination;  —  for,  having  some  of  the  old  Celtic  blood 
in  our  veins,  like  them,  we  are  fond  of  eloquence,  and 
highly   value   the   "gift    of  the   gab." 

Smart,  over-dressed  girls  came  riding  on  plow  horses, — 
wagons  brought  their  freight  of  young  and  old,  —  groups 
of  sturdy  farmers,  who,  in  an  emergency,  are  sure  to  find 
the  right,  although  they  may  be  slow  about  it,  jogged 
along,  discussing  the  probabilities  and  results  of  the  elec- 
tion of  this  or  that  one,  —  and  always  there  was  due 
regard  to  measures  bearing  upon  their  material  interests. 
Could  a  man  hear  the  talk  which  grows  out  of  his  being 
a  candidate  at  an  election,  he  would  be  surprised  to  find 
that  peccadillos,  which  to  him  were  small  and  forgotten, 
are  by  others  remembered  with  surprising  accuracy.  A 
listener  would  soon  have  learned  that  Dervvent  was,  per- 
haps,  the  most   objectionable    man. 

"  I  'm  afraid,"  said  one,  "  that  this  convention  will  put 
a  bad  man  upon  us.  Now,  if  they  do,  for  one,  I  will 
not   vote   for   him." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  another,  "  and  yet  I  can  't  vote  for  the 
man    of  the    other   party." 

"  This   packing   of    conventions   will    be   the    ruin   of   us 


188  COTTAGES     AND 

yet;  —  some  liow,  the  thiufj  must  be  changed.  We  must 
be  allowed  to  vote  directly  for  whom  we  like,  —  the  con- 
stitution  must   be   changed." 

''The   constitution    is    all    nonsense!" 

Our  friends  were  on  their  way  with  the  rest.  Grace 
had  sent  Ned's  horse  on  to  him,  and  he  had  joined  them 
and  was  riding  with  her,  in  the  rear  of  the  paity  —  com- 
posed of  Uncle  John,  Mr.  Ellery,  and  ]\Ir.  Scranton, — 
Uncle   Tom    having   gone   forward   earlier   in   the   day. 

"  We  spend  a  great  deal  of  time  and  temper  upon 
*  patriotism,'  said  Uncle  John,  as  they  rode  slowly  onward. 
"But,   perhaps,  it   is   well;    it  keeps  us  bright   and  active." 

"  Patriotism,"  said  Mr.  Ellery,  "  is  only  one  of  the  forms 
of  selfishness.  What  is  it?  The  Laplander  has  it;  —  the 
North  Carolina  emigrant  searches  for  the  barren  hill  sides, 
because  they  are  like  his  native  land;  —  the  New  Eng- 
lander  finds  no  beauty  in  the  cascade,  without  its  factory. 
What,  then,  is  it,  but  to  love  —  ever  and  only  to  over 
value  one's  own,  and  to  under  value  one's  neighbors, — 
until  one  can,  by  hook  or  crook,  appropriate  it  to  one's 
self:  —  then,  none  so  fine!  Pride  of  family  comes  next; 
and  at  the   head   stands    egotism  —  vanity." 

"A  queer  world  you  would  have  of  it,  Ellery,"  said 
Mr.  Scranton,  "with  no  'family,'  and  no  'country,'  —  you 
would  go  back,  I  take  it,  beyond  your  Greeks, —  perhaps 
beyond   the   patriarchs  ? " 

"I  would  have  patriarchs,  and  not  partizans  —  no,  sir! 
I  would  not  go  back,  but  forward.  If  Christ  taugiit  any 
thing,  he  taught  me,  that  we  must  become  as  little  chil- 
dren, once  more ;  it  is  not  to  go  back  to  barbarism,  but 
forward  to  tlie  time  when  the  child  shall  lead  the  lion  ! 
And    why   not?" 

"Why    not?      It's    contrary    to    the     nature    of    tilings;  — 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  189 

it 's  as  idle  to  expect  it  as  to  expect  a  politician  to  care 
for  any  thing  but  his  own  advancement.  No,  sir  ;  you  'd 
better  stick  to  the  old  landmarks ;  get  your  children  up  to 
yourself,  rather  than  to  go  back  to  them;  —  stand  up  for 
one's  family,  and  one's  country,  through  every  thing :  — 
that  's   my   motto." 

"  I  'd  not  save  my  own  son,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Ellery,  in  re- 
ply, "if  I  knew  him  to  be  a  base,  poisonous  man;  —  no, 
sir,  mankind  is  my  family,  —  the  world  my  country, —  and 
God   my   king." 

"  You  forget  the  Greeks,"  suggested    Uncle   John. 
"  This   is    surprising,"   said    Mr.    Scranton ;     "  too    expan- 
sive.    You   live,  Ellery,   in    too    rarified   an    atmosphere  for 
my   poor   lungs." 

"  And,  no  doubt,"  continued  Uncle  John,  "  will  be  able 
to  dispense  with  death,  which  Eve,  a  meddlesome  woman, 
brought  upon  us,  —  and  exhale  into  regions  of  pure  space. 
Is   that  it,  Ellery?" 

"  I  can  't  say,"  he  replied,  "  what  I  shall  come  to ;  but 
I  am  not  very  etherial  now,  for  this  saddle,  I  find,  is  very 
uncomfortable." 

"  There   it  is  ! "  said   Mr.   Scranton. 
And   Uncle   John   enjoyed  a   quiet   laugh. 
As   they    approached   the    edge   of  the   village,  where   the 
crowd   was   gathering,   this    kind    of    conversation   was   dis- 
continued;   no   doubt,    to    every    one's    satisfaction,    except 
those   engaged   in  it. 

A  fluent  and  strong-voiced  speaker  had  been  engaged, 
and  the  chief  attraction  was  to  listen  to  him  —  the  con- 
vention itself  having  met  early,  and  finished  the  business 
of  the  people  in  a  quiet  way,  by  nominating  Derwent, — 
who  was  really  wanted  by  a  smaller  number,  most  likely, 
than  any  other  who  could  have  been  selected.    Yet,  what  could 


190  COTTAGES    AND 

the  public  do?  —  there  was  no  remedy?  Their  "  principles," 
they  believed,  were  of  more  consequence  than  their  man ; 
and,  besides,  why  should  any  other  attempt  at  an  organiza- 
tion be  more  successful  ?  The  men  who  made  politics 
their  business  had  been  bought  —  and  the  Mock  must  fol- 
low their  lead.  Piut,  in  emergencies,  it  is  well  to  remember 
that  they  will  not  follow ! 

A  slight  staging  had  been  raised,  under  the  tall  trees, 
for  the  officers  and  the  speaker;  also,  some  rough  seats 
in  front  for  the  listeners.  Toward  eleven  o'clock,  these 
became  filled ;  the  greatest  good  nature  prevailed ;  and 
the  rich  and  noisy  laughter,  which  pointed  and  pointless 
jokes  equally  excited,  would  have  puzzled  Gall,  had  he 
been  there,  and  have  driven  him  to  the  invention  of  an- 
other  organ. 

Among  the  most  certain  stimulants  was  a  long-twisted 
yell,  —  or,  at  the  prominence  of  some  person  peculiarly 
dressed,  the  cries  of  "what  a  hat!"  or,. "  what  a  coat!" 
were  irresistible,  and  unfailing,  —  and  spoke  volumes  for 
the  intention  of  the  crowd  to  "catch  pleasure  as  it  flies,"  — 
an  effort,  one  might  suppose,  approaching  in  intensity  to 
that  of  the  ancient  philosophers,  of  extracting  blood  from 
whetstones. 

The  girls  who  had  fine  dresses  shook  them  out,  and 
rearranged  themselves  in  their  seats;  while  of  those  who 
could  be  cleam  rather  than  fine,  many  felt  depressed  or 
foolish;  —  a  warning  to  all  girls  not  to  be  less  decorated 
than   their   neighbors,  w^hatevcr   it  may   cost! 

A  loud-voiced  man  called  the  people  to  order,  and  the 
speaker,  with  president  and  vice  presidents,  —  one  from 
each  of  the  states, — with  secretaries,  &c.,  mounted  the 
stage,  in  plain  sight,  as  if  to  say  that  they  were  not 
ashamed     of   \vhat     they    were     about,    and    for    no    other 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  \()l 

apparent  reason.  The  secretaries  proceeded  to  mend  their 
pens  with  great  assiduity,  for  what  purpose,  the}'  knew 
best ;  they  were  very  solemn  about  it,  and  the  whispering 
and  consulting  was  nearly  closed,  when  the  staging,  not 
being  built  for  so  much  dignity,  gave  way,  —  and  presi- 
dents, speaker,  secretaries,  and  pens,  went  down  in  a  style 
lamentably  undignified.  That  was  a  joke  —  and  one  worth 
laughing   about. 

However,  the  stage  being  soon  reconstructed,  the  speaker 
advanced  alone,  apparently  trying  its  strength.  He  said, — 
"  Whatever  goes  down,  I  do  not  propose  to  break  down 
myself."  This  was  a  good  hit, —  an  introduction  which 
ripened  into  intimacy,  as  he  laid  before  them  their  own 
glory  and  virtue;  —  immaculate,  and  undimmed,  when  com- 
pared with  the  degradation  of  despotism.  But  of  this 
every   one   has    heard   too    much. 

When  the  speech  was  ended,  the  crowd  separated :  — 
some,  preceded  by  the  officers  of  the  meeting,  in  search 
of  the  dinner;  others,  to  take  part  as  spectators,  or  ac- 
tors, in  the  shooting  match,  which  was  to  follow.  Uncle 
John,  and  the  elders,  were  more  interested  with  the  for- 
mer purpose;  while  Grace  and  Ned,  on  the  contrary,  went 
with  the  larger  portion  in  search  of  the  shooting  ground. 
Uncle  John  was  separated  from  his  companions,  and  looked 
in  vain  for  the  signs  of  dinner.  Upon  inquiry  at  the 
tavern,  he  learned  that  it  was  to  be  had  in  the  large 
barn,  in  the  rear.  There,  mounted  on  a  hogshead,  the 
loud-voiced  man  read  out  the  names  of  various  delega- 
tions and  deputations,  which  were  to  be  provided  for  in 
any  event.  As  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  make  explana- 
tions, and  give  directions,  as  well  as  to  bear  up  against  the 
crowd  of  hungry  applicants,  this  was  not  so  speedy  a 
matter    as    might   be    supposed;    and  Uncle  John,  who   had 


192  COTTAGES     AND 

stood  all  the  morning,  was  breaking  down  under  this  new 
inlliction,  when  the  reader,  seeing  him  about  to  tarn  away, 
and  knowing  him,  beckoned  to  him  to  approach,  and 
passed    him    in. 

It,  however,  was  not  tio  much  of  a  favor  as  might 
have  been  hoped,  for  the  provisions  had  disappeared 
before  this  army,  led  on  by  hunger ;  and  he  was  glad 
to  make  terms  with  a  servant  for  some  bread  and  cheese, 
to  which  he  invited  Mr.  Ellery's  attention,  having  found 
him  crowded  into  a  corner,  passive  and  uni>esisting  — 
though  how  he  gained  admission,  he  could  not  very  well 
explain. 

The  shooting  was  indifferent.  No  one  had  done  more 
than  to  scatter  a  few  feathers  from  the  poor  turkey,  which 
at  every  shot  ducked  her  head,  while  the  crowd  shouted 
and  jeered  the  unsuccessful  marksman,  who  quickly  van- 
ished behind  the  front  row  of  spectators.  Grace  had  seen 
enough  of  this,  and  proposed  to  Ned  to  leave,  when 
Derwent  stepped  up,  and  laying  down  his  fee,  slowly 
raised  his  rifle.  He  was  well  dressed,  and  well  looking, 
and  many  believed  and  wished  that  he  might  hit  the 
bird. 

"That  was  a  good  shot!  lloora !  lioora  ! "  was  heard 
on  all  sides,  as  the  wings  of  the  bird  drooped  on  the 
ground. 

Derwent  was  elated  —  shook  hands  with  all  —  invited  all 
to  go  and  drink.  But  he  wilted  into  insignificance,  and 
drooped  his  crest,  as  he  met  .lim  HaskilKs  eye  ;  who,  push- 
ing through  the  crowd  from  where  he  had  been  standing, 
partly   hidden    by    a   tree,  said  — 

"Stand  by,  men  —  cruelty  is  mean — back  a  minute"  — 
and  raising  his  rifle,  he  touched  the  trigger,  when  the 
head  of  the   bird    was   lying   on    the    ground. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  I93 

This  shot  entirely  eclipsed  Derwent's  glory — and  "hoo- 
ra!  for  Jim!"  sounded  upon  all  sides.  "Give  us  another, 
Jim ! "     "  Let 's   see  another   shot !  " 

"  Has  any  body  a  dollar?"  asked  Jim.  "Ho!  Derwent!" 
he  cried,  as  his  eye  caught  him,  in  full  retreat  —  "here  — 
send  up  a  dollar,  just  for  a  shot,  you  know  —  it  can  't 
hurt  it.     You   know  you   owe    me  ? " 

Derwent  fumbled   in  his   pocket   for  the   coin. 

"Now  up  with  it,"  said   Jim. 

"  I  can  't  throw  high  enough,"  said  he  in  reply.  And 
really  he   did  not  seem   strong. 

"Here,"  said  a  six-foot,  lathy  fellow,  "I  '11  shy  it  for 
you,"  and  up  it  went.  As  it  turned,  high  over  head,  Jim 
raised  his  rifle,  and — click — the  metal  rang  agafn.  The 
crowd  in  great  excitement  ran  to  find  it.  It  appeared 
that  the  ball  had  perforated  the  silver  with  a  tolerably 
clean  cut.  Jim  took  it  in  his  hand,  and  looking  around 
gave   it   to   Grace,  saying  — 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  no  ribbon  for  it,  but  you  can 
furnish  it." 

"  Hoora  for  Jim's   sweetheart !     Hoora  !  " 

Grace  hurried  away  at  this  unlocked  for  publicity,  not 
knowing   what  might  happen   next. 

Jim  whispered  to  Derwent  as  he  passed  him  —  "I'll 
credit  you   on   account." 

The  day  passed  rapidly  away,  with  races,  horse  and  foot, 
— jumping  —  wrestling — intriguing  —  drinking.  The  more 
sedate  took  up  their  march  for  home,  before  night  fall. 
Through  the  woods  the  shout  and  song  of  some  over-ex- 
cited parties  grew  fainter  and  fainter.  All  of  our  friends 
had  left,  except  Uncle  Tom,  who  remained  in  consultation 
with  his  disappointed  and  angry  friends.  Night  gathered 
25 


194  C  O  T  T  A  G  K  S     A  N  D 

itself  upon  the  scene,  yet  Derwent  lingered.  With  a  knot 
of  his  acquaintances,  he  tried  hard  to  drink  down  the 
devil  of  his  heart.  But  it  will  not  do,  Harry.  T  will  be 
better   to  go  home   sober,   and  by  daylight. 

It  was  well  into  the  night,  when  Uncle  Tom  rode  slowly 
homeward — oppressed  and  weary  —  but  not  until  toward 
midnight  did  Derwent  and  his  good  fellows  collect  them- 
selves for  a  start.  They  would  have  made  a  sorry  ap- 
pearance by  daylight,  as  they  sat  loosely  on  their  horses, 
and  shouted  rather  than  sang  scraps  of  songs,  which  it  is 
not  desirable  to  repeat  here. 

One  by  one  they  dropped  off  upon  their  several  ways, 
until  Derwent  rode  alone.  He  might  have  heard  the  faint 
autumn  wind  as  it  sighed  through  the  trees,  or  the  dicker 
of  the  whippoorwill  startled  from  its  repose.  But  he 
heard  not  them.  He  was  trying  to  remember  that  last  song 
—  "  Snappo  —  snappo — 'Oh,  Landlady  have  you' — What 
is  it?  Oh,  damn  it  —  snappo?"  Finding  that  the  words 
would  not  come  to  him,  he  concluded  to  sing  out  what 
he  did  know,  and  that  well.  So  on  he  went — "Snappo, 
snappo"  —  louder  and  louder,  until  the  discordant  note  of 
the  screech  owl  sounded  in  his  ears,  and  his  horse  came 
to  a  dead  stand,  throwing  him  forward  on  his  neck.  He 
was  frightened  and  sobered,  and  tried  to  recover  himself, 
but  it  was  too  late,  for  he  stood  face  to  face  with  Jim 
Haskill. 

"  Ha,  ha,"  chuckled  Jim  — "  so  you  fell  off.  li^  it  had  n't 
been  for  me,  you  'd  have  broke  your  head  —  and  then 
where   would  you  have  been  ? " 

He  held  him  up  by  the  collar;  for  the  poor  creature 
was  hardly  able  to  stand.  He  sustained  himself  by  Jim's 
arm,  and  gasped  rather  than  asked  —  "What  are  you  going 
to  do,   Jim?" 


C  O  T  T  A  G  E      L  1  F  E.  I95 

Again  Jim's  chuckle — "What  would  you  do,  if  you  was 
me    now  ?  " 

"Don't  kill   me,   Jim,"    again   quavered  Derwent. 

"Kill  you!  ha,  ha.  I  do  n't  kill  skunks" — and  he 
hissed   in   his   ear,  "  they  're  sneaking,  dirty   critters." 

"Oh,  Jim  —  I'll  do  any  thing  if  you  '11  let  me  off — 
give   any   thing  —  promise  — 

"Why,  fool,"  said  Jim,  "What  ails  you?  You  fell  off 
yourself.  Why  do  n't  you  stand  up  ? "  and  he  jerked  him 
roughly   by   the  collar. 

This  revived  Derwent,  who,  making  an  effort,  cast  him- 
self from  Jim's   hand,  saying: 

"That's  right;  I  don't  know  what  's  the  matter,  but  I 
1[)elieve  I  was  drunk ; "  and  he  smiled  his  sickly  smile, 
which  faded  into  a  ghastly  grin,  as  Jim  laid  his  hand  on 
his   shoulder,  saying  — 

"  This  is  most  as  fine  a  night  as  them  at  the  camp  meet- 
ing, eh?  " 

His  poor  victim  shivered  from  head  to   foot. 

"Don't  hold  so  hard,  Jim.  I  didn't  mean  any  thing  — 
upon  my  —  soul  I   didn't." 

"Upon   what?"  said   Jim,   with  his  pebuliar  laugh. 

"I'll  pay" — said  Derwent — "How  much '11  you  take 
and   let   me  off? " 

"But  you  fell  off  yourself  What  should  I  let  off?  I 
have  nothing  to  do  with  you,  you  know?  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  have  me  catch  your  horse,  now  ? "  said  Jim,  as  he 
loosed  his  arm.  Derwent  again  taking  Rope,  at  least  des- 
peration, thrust  his  hand  into  his  breast  in  search  of  a 
pistol  which  he  carried ;  for  he  was  one  of  those  who 
value  their  worthless  lives  so  highly,  that  they  have  an 
overweening  belief  that  all  the  world  are  watching  an 
opportunity    to   snatch   them    away.       In    his    nervous    and 


196  COTTAGES     AND 

desperate  state,  the  thought  that  he  might  shoot  Jim,  while 
he  was  after  his  horse,  flashed  upon  his  mind,  and  without 
coming  to  distinctness,  he  cocked  the  weapon.  The  sharp 
click  struck  upon  Jim's  car  ;  for  he  had  moved  but  a  step, 
and  he    again   grasped   the    weak   arm. 

"What  is  it?  Let's  see — something  that'll  bark?  Out 
with  it !  come  ! "  and  he  grasped  the  arm  tighter,  until 
Derwent  half  screamed,  as  he  pulled  out  the  pistol  and 
snapped  it,  perhaps  involuntarily,  so  that  the  flash  was 
scorching  to  his  own  face  as  well   as  Haskill's. 

"  That  's  a  purty  way  to  handle  edge  tools,"  said  Jim,  not 
now  relaxing  his  grasp  of  Derwent's  arm,  from  which  the 
body  vainly  tried  to  free  itself.  "  You  would  n't  hurt 
mc  ?  "  • 

"  God  o'  mercy  !  "  said  Derwent,  "  let  me  go !  Oh,  Jim, 
I  '11  do  any  thing  —  tell  you  any  thing — give  any  thing. 
Oh,  Jim,  do  n't  hurt  me  —  I  never  hurt  Bessy  —  mercy,  Jim!" 

"  Where  is  she  ?  " 

Derwent  hastily  told  him  where  he  had  left  her. 

"  She  's  not   there,"  Jim   replied. 

"Then    I  don't   know  —  upon  my  soul." 

Jim   chuckled   again. 

"I  don't — I  would  n't  lie,  Jim.  Now  let  me  go — now 
Jim ! "  but  Jim  slowly  drew  out  from  his  breast  some 
strong  thongs  of  half -tanned  deer's  hide,  which  were  fas- 
tened stiffly  to  a  short  stock.  lie  held  it  before  Derwent's 
face.    "  Do   you  see   that  ?  " 

"  I   can  't    see   any  thing,  Jim.      Oh,  do  let  me  go  !  " 

"  Well,  do  you  feel  it  ?  ha,  ha  !  " 

Derwent  raised  a  shrill  cry  which,  if  heard  at  all  by  any 
but  himself  and  Ilaskill,  was  numbered  only  with  one  of 
the  screams  of  the  birds  of  prey,  which  were  awake  upon 
this    eventful    night. 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  I97 

There  are  times,  when  other  than  known  influences 
seem  to  work ;  when  the  air  is  full  of  sounds ;  when 
men  sleep  uneasily,  and  dream  strange  dreams;  and 
bird  and  beast  have  no  rest.  Jack,  the  Newfoundland, 
who  usually  slept  upon  the  door  seat,  changed  his  posi- 
tion, and  walked  out  unquietly,  like  a  watchman  going 
his  rounds.  He  sent  up,  at  intervals,  his  long,  low 
howl,  and  from  farm  house  to  farm  house,  the  dogs 
bayed  hoarsely.  But  what  white  figure  is  this,  toward 
which  he  moves  stealthily  ?  Why  does  he  not  give  his 
warning  bark?  He  snuffs  around  in  circles,  until  some 
slight  motion  reassures  him,  and  he  raises  himself  and 
looks   in  her   face.     She   sings   to   him   in   her  low  voice  — 

There  's  a  spirit  within, 

Who  dares  deny? 
Ah,  Trip  !   you   rogue  ! 

You  lurk  in   his   eye. 

She  sat  down,  and  the  dog  laid  himself  in  her  lap,  and 
seemed   quiet. 

But  Grace  was  sleeping  heavily.  She  had  taken  her 
book  and  candle,  intending  to  wait  in  her  own  room  her 
father's  return ;  for  she  was  anxious  and  uneasy  respect- 
ing  him. 

Overcome,  however,  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  her 
eyelids  gradually  closed,  and  the  book  fell  upon  her  lap. 
She  slept  on,  at  times  starting,  but  not  so  as  to  awaken. 
The  candle  flashed  fitfully  and  burnt  itself  out — yet  she 
did  not  wake — but  dreamed,  naturally  enough,  of  the  poor 
Bessy,  who  she  thought  was  not  dead,  but  still  saying  to 
her  in   her   simple,   wild   way  — 


198  COTTAGES     AND 

"  We  shall  meet  again, 
Nor  part  for  years; 
In  the  bright,  blue  worlds, 

No  hunger  there  —  no  storms  —  no  tears." 

She  thought  she  heard  a  low  laugh,  and  it  jarred  u])on 
her  nerves — but  the  chant   went   on  — 

"Believe  it  not, 

For  't  is  all  a  lie, 
That   there  are  no  worlds 
In    the    bright,  blue  sky." 

Again  she  heard  a  laugh,  which  this  time  sounded 
strangel)'^,  like  the  harsh  chuckle  of  Jim  Haskill.  She 
slept  on  until  the  morning's  sun  streamed  into  her  face 
through  the  open  window  —  but  she  woke  with  surprise, 
and   unrefreshed. 

Uncle  Tom,  as  has  been  said,  returned  home  much  ex- 
hausted. He  went  to  his  room  without  awakening  any 
person.  Taking  his  letters  from  the  mantlepiece,  among 
which  he  had  noticed  one  from  Wainwright,  he  hastily 
broke  the  seal  and   read  — 

"I  can  make  no  excuse  —  nothing  can  explain  to  you, 
not  ev^en  to  myself  this  overwhelming  result  of  my  life  ; 
which,  it  is  truth  to  say,  is  increased  in  misery  a  thou- 
sand fold,  by  the  reflection  that  I  carry  with  me  to  ruin 
those  friends  in  whose  good  opinion  1  have  found  my 
chief  pride  —  yourself  among   the    number." 

The  room  seemed  oppressively  small  to  Uncle  Tom. 
He  raised  his  hand  to  his  head,  for  his  eyes  were  clouded, 
and   made   a  movement  toward  the  window  —  but  he  could 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  I99 

not  reach  it,  and  sank  slowly  into  his  low  bed,  and  with- 
out pain  passed  quietly  away  to  a  world  far  from  this  — 
where  he  shall  find  that  rest  for  which  he  sought  in 
vain   here. 

They  sat  at  the  breakfast  table  and  wondered  that  Un- 
cle Tom  did  not  appear — he  was  usually  so  prompt — but 
remembering  that  he  had  been  greatly  fatigued  and  ex- 
cited, it  was  not  very  strange  —  and  the  meal  proceeded 
in  comparative  silence,  until  Ned,  who  had  returned  with 
them,  said  —  "Perhaps,  Grace,  you  had  better  ring  the 
bell  ?  " 

"  I  will  call  him  myself,"  she  said,  as  she  rose  from 
her  chair. 

Uncle  John  and  Ned  were  startled  by  a  slight  scream, 
and  hastened  after  her,  when  they  found  she  had  fainted 
upon   touching   Uncle  Tom's  cold   hand. 

Ned  rushed  to  the  stable,  and  mounting  a  horse,  rode 
to  the  village  for  a  surgeon,  while  Uncle  John  took  need- 
ful steps  to  revive  Grace  and  Uncle  Tom  —  but  for  the 
latter,   it  was   too   late — his   soul   had  fled. 


200  COTTAGES     AND 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

As  Ned  rode  swiftl}'  toward  the  village,  he  furnished  a 
new  source  of  speculation.  Two  antique  women  were 
gossiping,  with  a  fence  between  them,  with  enlarged  eyes, 
and   curiously   contorted   expressions. 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"What— eh!    what  is  it?" 

"  Why,  I  woke  up  in  the  night,  and  heard  the  most  ter- 
rible cries  and  screeches;  and,  thinks  I  to  myself,  the 
witches  has  a  holiday,  because  Old  Derwent  's  nominated. 
Well  — I  feel  asleep  —  " 

"  Well,  and  then  —  ?  " 

"No  —  I  was  just  about  to  fall  asleep,  when  I  heard  a 
rushing  sound,  —  as  if  a  thousand  horses  was  riding  by, — 
and  then  I  got  up  and  looked  out;  —  and  1  heard  —  what 
do  you  think  —  " 

"What?  — what  was  it?" 

"A  horrible  yell!  —  and  what  do  you  think  that  was?" 

"  A  panther?" 

"  It  was  somebody  killing  Harry  Derwent ! " 

This  is  the  way  she  had  gathered  the  rumors ;  but 
loosely,  for  it  was  at  least  two  miles  away  where  he 
was  that  morning  found  —  and  not  dead  either,  but  dread- 
fully bruised  and  mutilated.  And  now  he  lies  in  his  own 
father's  house,  and  all  the  village  is  busy  in  speculation,  as 
to  whether  he  will  die,  and  what  is  the  cause  of  this 
strange    aflair,   and   who  was  the   perpetrator  tjf  the  strange 


COTTAGE     LIKi:.  201 

deed.  Dervvent's  own  pistol  had  been  found,  and  his 
face  was  burnt  with  powder;  but  it  was  impossible  to  say 
that   he    had   been   shot. 

The  stroke  to  Uncle  Tom  was  a  new  ingredient  thrown 
into  the  fermenting  mind ;  but  it  would  not  cohere  with 
Dervvent's  accident;  and  it  is  not  strange,  rumor  so  often 
grows  out  of  truth,  that  the  belief  was  almost  universal, 
that  Jim  Haskill  was  at  the  bottom  of  that;  —  although 
why,  was  involved  in  mystery  to  all,  but  the  three  or  four 
whom  we  have  seen  knew  the  facts. 

The  conclusion  of  Wainwright's  letter,  which  had,  no 
doubt,  precipitated  the  catastrophe  with  Uncle  Tom,  was 
thus :  — 

"I  do  not  seek  to  extenuate,  but  to  repair,  the  follies  — 
the  crimes  into  which  I  have  so  weakly  allowed  myself 
to  be  led.  From  a  small  beginning  it  has  all  grown;  — 
one  successful  speculation  has  been  my  ruin  —  which  car- 
ries with  it  yours.  This  is  too  much,  and  I  cannot  stay 
to  face  either  your  anger  or  kindness,  which  would  be 
still  harder  to  bear.  I  go  to  atone  and  repair,  so  far 
as  Providence  spares  me  the  time,  this  great  wrong  which 
I   have   committed.      You   will   hear  from   me   again. 

"  C.  Wainwright." 

Grace  made  the  necessary  effort  to  get  through  with 
the  painful  duties  which  now  devolved  upon  her;  but  it 
was  plain  to  the  most  superficial  observer  that  she  was 
acting.  A  few  days  had  worked  a  wonderful  change  in 
her  appearance.  In  place  of  a  bright,  sparkling  face,  she 
was  now  pallid,  like  one  who  had  been  worn  with  sickness 
and  suffering;  —  her  eye  was  cold  and  expressionless;  — 
and  't  was  only  when  recalled  to  herself  that  she  roused 
26 


•20-2  COTTAGES     AND 

her  old  ppirit.  As  the  excitement  wore  away,  so  did  her 
strength;    and   Uncle   John   began    to   have   serious   fears. 

'*  I  cannot  help  it,  Uncle  John,"  she  said.  "  It  is  useless 
to   tell    me    that   1    am    nervous,  —  is   that   nothing?" 

"  But,  Gracie,  I  know  that  it  is  the  most  difficult  thing 
to  cure;  yet  I  know  that  it  is  susceptible  of  cure : — and, 
without  flattering  you,  I  know  that  you  are  able  to  make 
the   necessary   effort." 

"  I  will  do  any  thing,"  she  replied,  "  but  you  must  urge 
me,   and   bear   with   me." 

Ned  was  as  careful  of  her  as  of  a  child;  and  when 
they  rode  together,  as  they  did,  —  not  now  on  their  brave 
horses,  but  in  a  low  and  cushioned  carriage,  —  he  would 
trj^  to  raise  her  spirits,  as  she  lay  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
to  fan  again  the  smouldering  flame  which  once  had 
burned  so  brightly.  She  revived,  however,  but  slightly, — 
and,  upon  the  approach  of  winter,  Uncle  John  determined 
to  collect  together  what  little  remained  of  Uncle  Tom's 
property,  which,  with  his  own,  might  suffice,  and  try  a 
change   of  scene   and   objects. 

*'  Take  me  any  where,"  said  Grace,  "  except  into  the 
towns,  —  I  shall  be  worse  there  than  I  am  here.  I  am 
cold  enough  now:  —  freeze  me  to  death  in  Norway,  but 
not  there." 

One  short  summer  only  had  been  passed  on  the  banks 
of  this  pleasant  river, — where,  at  first  so  broad  and 
beautiful,  a  life  had  been  spread  out  before  them ;  —  in 
one  short  day  so  many  changes  had  come  over  it,  —  and 
now  they  bade  to  all  a  sad  and  silent  adieu.  Once  more 
we  shall  meet  them  again. 

Of  the  other  persons  here  mentioned,  a  short  account 
may  be  desirable:  — 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  203 

Harry  Dervvent  lived;  but  he  lived — a  wreck  of  his 
former  self.  His  few^  accomplishments,  and  he  had  no- 
thing else,  were  useless  without  his  beauty;  and  that  had 
given  place  to  a  broken  countenance,  which  none  loved 
to   look  upon. 

The  elder  Derwent,  too,  was  crushed  by  this  visitation, 
and  renounced  his  schemes  of  ambition;  —  relinquishing  the 
nomination,  which  was  assumed  by  Peter  Williams,  —  and 
secured;  a  fact  which  should  gladden  the  hearts  of  all 
travelers,  for  he  religiously  kept  his  vow  as  to  the  roads. 


■201  COTTAGES    AND 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

Passing  over  some  four  years,  we  see  Uncle  John,  whose 
hair  has  grovA'^n  a  shade  grayer*  sitting  on  the  ragged  rocks 
wliich  overlook  the  sea.  We  liokls  a  little  child  in  his 
arms,  to  \vhom  lie  is  pointing  out  the  sail  of  a  small 
sloop,  yet  at  some  distance  :  too  far  for  the  boy  to  get  it 
distinctly  in  his  eye ;  though  his  replies  would  indicate 
that  he  has  the  idea  —  for  he  repeats  the  more  prominent 
words  — 

"  Boat — mamma"  — 

"  Yes,  there  they  are,  ]\Iark.  N  cry  soon  they  will  be  at 
home." 

"  Home  "  —  the    child    replies. 

The  wind  is  light  but  gradually  freshens,  for  there  are 
.clouds  where  the  sun  is  going  down  —  and  the  boat  comes 
rapidly  in.  As  she  draws  near  the  cove,  some  one  waves 
a  handkerchief,  which  Mark  sees,  and  by  Uncle  John's 
assistance  replies  to  with  his  hat.  They  hurry  down  to 
iiicct  them  —  and  A\hen  they  reappear  near  the  house, 
Ned  is  carrying  the  child ;  and  Grace,  dressed  in  a  sort  of 
tunic,  adapted  to  her  present  style  of  life,  is  telling  Uncle 
John  of  her  adventure  with  a  large  fish,  when  they  are 
all  surprised  by  the  appearance  of  their  old  friends,  Mr. 
Ellcry  and  Mr.   Scranton,  on  the    porch. 

Mr.  Scranton,  shaking  hands  with  .-ill,  says  — 

"  This  is  surprising.  Why  Grace,  you  look  younger  than 
ever." 


COTTAGE     LIFE.  005 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that  —  but  tell  us^  where  did  you 
come   from  ?  " 

They  soon  felt  at  home  and  at  ease  —  and  as  the  twi- 
light comes  on,  explain  that  having  obtained  leave  of  ab- 
sence for  a  few  days,  they  have  taken  their  horses  and 
ridden  across  ( 't  was  a  hundred  miles )  to  shake  hands 
with  them — a  thing  which  they  had  been  promising  them- 
selves  for  months. 

''  But  Ned,"  said  Mr.  Scranton,  "  how  do  you  satisfy 
yourself  here  ?  You  are  too  young  to  get  so  much  out  of 
the  world." 

"  I  am  not  out  of  the  vA'^orld,"  he  replies,  "  only  just  on 
the  outskirts.  Why,  I  will  tell  you,  Mr.  Scranton,  I  got 
sick,  nauseated,  with  the  coarse,  mercantile  spirit,  which 
is  so  rank,  pretty  early  in  life,  and  I  have  not  recovered 
from  it.  I  am  willing  to  work  hard,  if  it  is  necessary; 
but  I  will  not  speculate.  I  intend  to  live  my  life,  as  it 
passes,  and  not  make  of  it  a  purgatory,  which  is  to  pre- 
pare me  for   a   possible   heaven    of  gold." 

"  That 's  right,"  Mr.  Ellery  replies,  and  makes  some 
illustrations,   drawn   from   his   store   of  Grecian   fable. 

They  talked  again  of  the  events  which  had  taken  place 
on  the  river,  at  their  old  home;  for  Grace  had  recovered 
her  tone  of  mind,  and  with  it  her  health.  The  house, 
commenced  by  Uncle  Tom,  had  been  finished.  John  and 
•lemima  had  gone  into  a  partnership,  and  now  displayed 
a  large  sign  of  "  Dry  goods.  Groceries,  and  Fashionable 
Bonnets" — where,  as  John  himself  said,  he  sold  every 
thing   "  from  goose  yokes  to  pulpits  !  " 

The  fate  of  two  other  persons,  may  possibly  be  of  in- 
terest  to  the  reader. 

It  was  a  few  weeks  after  this  visit  that  Grace  ( she 
was   certainly    awake )    heard  the    same    voice   which   had 


•^06  COTTAGES     AND 

sounded  to  her  on  the  night  when  Uncle  Tom  died.  She 
rubbed  her  eyes  in  some  doubt  —  but  it  was  so;  it  must 
be  Bessy  Haskill  —  there  is,  then,  no  mistake  this  time? 
She  could  not  hear  the  words,  but  she  dressed  herself 
quickly  and  went  in  search  of  Ned,  who  was  watching 
from  the  rocks  a  light  canoe,  built  of  bark,  which  con- 
tained two  persons  —  Jim  llaskill  and  his  daughter.  lie 
had  drawn  the  boat  out  of  the  water,  and  proceeded  to 
make  a  little  fire,  while  Bessy  sang  as  she  wandered  in 
search   of  wild   flowers   and   bird's  nests. 

Jim  was  disturbed  in  his  preparations,  by  Jack,  who 
burst  down  upon  him  from  among  the  bushes.  Having 
soon  recognized  him,  he  started  quickly  for  his  boat,  call- 
ing to  Bessy,  when  Ned  appeared,  followed  by  Grace.  Jim 
at  first  refused  to  say  or  do  any  thing  with  them.  But 
Grace's  kindness  to  Bessy,  softened  him  —  and  the  result 
was,   that   they   were   both   taken   captive. 

Jim  had  reformed  what  habit  of  drinking  he  formerly 
had,  and  was  invaluable  in  farming  —  fishing  —  boat  build- 
ing, and  in  all  the  various  occupations  which  were  essen- 
tial to  their  way  of  living, —  while  with  care  and  attention, 
Grace  was  enabled  to  bring  to  some  coherence  the  wan- 
dering wits  of  Bessy,  though  she  always  sang  her  thoughts 
and  fancies.  They  still  live  with  Mr.  Lee  and  his  three 
children,  who  were  mentioned  in  our  opening  chapter — 
and   there  we  will   leave  them. 

Twice  in  every  year,  Uncle  John  received,  through  Wsiin- 
wright's  agent  in  New  York,  small  sums  of  money  —  and 
although  nothing  more  was  heard  of  him,  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  expiating  his  follies,  and  trying  to  recover 
his  self  respect. 


DESCRIPTION     OF    PLATE    X. 

The  two  piazzas  to  this  i>lan  are  made  by  a  contin- 
uation of  the  rafters  of  the  roof.  The  posts  supporting 
them  are  latticed  with  lath  or  thin  strips,  and  are  in- 
tended for  vines.  In  this  drawing  the  posts  are  omitted. 
Under  the  window  will  be  seen  a  box  of  earth  in  which 
morning  gloiys,  verbenas,  &c.,  will  grow,  if  watered  eveiy 
day.  A  single  cliimneystack,  is  intended  to  go  from  the 
basement,  in  which  are  a  Idtchen  and  bedroom  —  and 
to  contain  two  fire  places,  or  flues,  in  the  upper 
chambers. 

The  fi-ont  wuidow  of  the  parlor  should  open  on  to  the 
piazza. 

The  room  back  of  it  has  a  part  of  the  piazza  inclosed 
for  a  bath  room,  or  closet.  The  upper  rooms  will  be  cut 
off  on  the  outer  side  by  the   roof,  about  a   foot. 

Estimate,  $1,680. 


10. 


--.^>e<4<*. 


cUdiMtMitU  JljM 


PARTICULARS. 


At  page  53  will  be  found  some  directions  and  details. 

In  the  first  place,  if  a  carpenter  tells  you  that  this  or  that  cannot 
be  done,  as  for  instance  the  projecting  roofs,  you  are  not  obliged  to 
believe  him.  He,  like  the  rest  of  men,  does  as  he  was  taught,  and 
in  no  other  way. 

As  to  the  appearance  of  a  House,  have  a  regard  to  the  general 
effect,  rather  than  the  minute  finishing;  for  instance  in  the  stuccoed 
house,  the  tone  of  color  is  much  more  important  than  the  imitation 
of  stone.  At  a  distance,  the  effect  is  the  same,  and  near  by,  no  one 
is  taken  in  by  the  pretence. 

It  is  best  to  consider  such  Additions  as  you  may  wish,  and  so 
manage  your  first  building  that  they  may  be  made  conveniently  and 
cheaply. 

It  is  not  an  objection  that  the  Roof  of  a  house  is  visible,  though 
this  has  been  a  very  common  belief.  In  a  snowy  country  the  steep 
roofs,  like  to  Plates  III  and  VII,  are  considered  appropriate  and 
useful.  In  the  designs  here  shown,  it  wiU  be  noticed  that  the  roofs 
extend  beyond  the  walls.  To  most  persons  the  effect  is  pleasing, 
because  it  is  suggestive  of  use  in  carrying  off  the  rains,  and  in  pro- 
tecting, to  some  degree,  the  sides  of  the  building,  particularly  such 
as  are  stuccoed.     The  usual  projection  is  from  one  to  four  feet. 

The  Verge  Boards  (see  Plate  XII),  which  give  so  pleasing  a  finish 
to  these   roofs,  should  be   cut  from  two-inch  plank  —  should  be  bold 
and  distinct — are  more  beautiful  if  made  to  drop  perpendicularly  from 
the  rake  of  the  gables,  like  moss,  or  stalactites. 
•27 


210  P  A  II  T  I  C  U  I,  A  R  S  . 

For  the  Colors  of  houses,  see  some  tints  in  "  Downing's  Cottages," 
which  are  good.  In  general,  the  different  shades  of  building  stone 
are  approjiriate,  for  houses  built  of  brick  and  wood.  The  verge 
boards,  window  and  duor  casings,  and  outside  finishings,  should  be 
a  little  darker  than  the  body  of  the  house,  instead  of  lighter,  as  is 
now  so  common ;  to  find  a  reason  for  this,  look  in  London  Encyclo- 
pedia, &.C. ;  and  the  sash  should  be  black,  or  nearly  so.  Washes 
made  of  lime  are  not  very  desirable. 

All  the  varieties  of  Italian  House  should  be  quite  light  in  color, 
and  for  a  summer  house,  of  a  cool  tone.  The  different  shades  of  gray 
are  clean  and  pleasing.  The  English  Cottage  style  of  house  is  asso- 
ciated with  stone  as  its  material,  and  may  be  a  little  darker  and 
warmer  in  tone.  A  very  good  effect  in  a  cheap  house,  is  to  put 
on  the  weather  boards  rough,  with  batted  joints,  and  then  oUing 
the  surface  (using  no  paint  of  coui-se).  The  Plate  III  in  this  series 
is  batted.  That  is,  the  weather  boarding  is  inch  plank,  cut  into 
uniform  widths  of  not  more  than  six  or  eight  inclies,  and  miiled  <in 
perpendicularly.  Over  the  joints  battens  of  half-inch  stuff,  one  inch 
to  one  and  a  half  inch  In-oad.  arc  nailed  on.  This  is  tight  and 
cheap. 

Green  Blinds  are  now  becoming  unpopular.  Green  has  been  over 
done.  The  better  color  generally  is  that  of  the  house  darkened. 
When  the  walls  are  of  stone,  the  inside  bhnds  are  more  convenient 
and  cheaper,  because  they  will  double  into  boxes  in  the  window 
casings. 

Windows  of  a  pretty  size  are  made  with  VI  lights  of  10  by  IG 
inch  glass.  In  many  of  these  plans  it  will  be  noticed  that  sash 
doors  are  used  for  the  lighting  of  entryways,  as  more  effectual 
than  the  small  "transom  light"   in  common  use. 

The  design  for  a  casement  window,  in  Plate  XEII,  can  be  made 
with  plain  or  stained  glass.  It  is  believed  that  the  following 
arrangement   will   be   good  —  these   figures   referring  to   those  on    the 

plate. 

1.  Sky  blue. 

2.  Liffht  orange. 


V  t  HCC    BOA  RO 

I  F*      1..      I  ih 


PARTICULARS.  oj  i 

8.  Mazariii  blue. 
4.  Claret. 

The  double  glazed  doors,  opening  to  the  piazza  floors,  should  be 
four  feet  wide.  A  single  panel  at  the  bottom  may  be  used  in  place 
of  glass — being  safer. 

Some  two  inches  higher  than  a  chair  seat  is  high  enough  for  the 
windows  to  stand  from  the  floor,  in  rooms  with  ten  feet  ceilings. 

Wide  Piazzas  are  always  desirable,  say  from  ten  to  fourteen  feet. 
A  cheap  and  good  roof  may  be  made  to  them  by  using  matched 
flooring  with  battens,  as  before  mentioned. 

VcntUalion  above  the  sleeping  rooms  should  always  be  provided 
for;  unless  a  small  window  can  be  introduced  by  having  a  piece  of 
the  weatherboarding  in  each  end,  movable  with  a  hinge  or  other 
contrivance   and   cord,  so   that  at  any  time  a  draft  can  be  made. 

As  far  as  possible,  arrange  the  bed  rooms  to  open  into  a  passage 
way,  rather  than  into  one  another.  It  is  not  at  all  necessary  that 
there  should  be   a  fire  place   in  every   chamber. 

For  Closets,  it  is  quite  as  cheap,  and  on  some  accounts  more  con- 
venient, that  they  should  be  movable ;  that  is,  "  wardrobes."  I  mean 
by  this,  rather  than  sacrifice  room  in  the  chambers,  make  closets  of 
common  inch  boards,  and   paint   them  like  the  other  wood  work. 

One  Large  Room  is  desirable  in  every  house,  and  in  general  I 
have  so  arranged  the  interiors.  In  all  rooms  a  better  effect  is  pro- 
duced if  the  light  enters  from  one  side  and  one  end,  rather  than 
from   the   two  ends. 

The  Kitchen  in  many  of  these  plans  is  supposed  to  be  in  the 
basement;  in  which  case  the  Sliding  Closet,  or  "Dumb  waiter,"  is 
very  desirable.  This  is  now  so  well  understood  that  an  explanation 
will  not  be  necessary.  From  the  dining  room,  an  inch  tin  speaking 
tube  may  go  through  the  wall  to  the  kitchen — and  in  the  floor  under 
the  table,  a  spring,  with  which  the  foot  rings  a  bell,  can  be  made. 
This  is  when  the  table  is  supposed  to  be  permanent.  It  will  be 
seen  that  a  kitchen  above  ground  can  be  put  on  to  each  of  these 
plans,   if  it   is   preferred. 


212  ■    PARTICULARS. 

As  few  Chimneys  as  possible  arc  introduced.  These  should,  when 
praeticiiltlo,  come  out  near  tlic  ridge  of  the  roofs.  If  placed  on  the 
outer  wall,  the  radiation  of  heat  is  sometimes  so  great  as  to  check 
the    draft. 

Flues,  containing  one  hundred  and  forty-four  square  inches,  have 
been  found  to  draw  well.  They  should  as  far  as  practicable  be 
straight;  and  when  bent,  it  should  not  be  suddenly.  They  should 
never  be   contracted   above  where  the  smoke   enters. 

Provide  a  good  l)rick   Oven.      It  is  necessary  in  the  country. 

One  Stair  Case  has  also  been  made  to  answer,  whqn  practicable. 
In  all  large  houses  it  is  desirable  to  have  a  private  one,  for  the 
various   conveniences   of  servants,  &c. 

Deadening  Floors  ("pugging")  is  practiced  in  weU- built  houses 
at  present.  That  is,  plastering  between  the  floor  and  ceilings,  with 
mortar. 

In  stone  houses,  it  is  not  proper  to  plaster  on  to  the  wall.  Al- 
ways "fur  off"  and  lath,  for  the  inner  walls.  In  tliis  way  the  damp- 
ness which  collects  upon  them,  does  not  get  into  the  room,  spoiluig 
the   paper,   &c. 

In  a  house  built  of  wood,  if  upon  the  weather  boards,  it  is  furred 
off,  lathed  and  plastered  —  so  making  an  air  chamber  next  to  the 
outer  covering,  and  another  next  the  inner  coat  of  plaster,  it  is  found 
to   be  a  great  protection   against  the  clianges  of  temperature. 

Respecting  the  wood  work,  the  Finishing  of  the  inside  of  a  liou.se, 
a  great  saving  may  be  made  by  using  a  three  or  four  inch  moldhig 
for  the  doors  and  windows,  instead  of  what  is  called  "  pilaster, "  and 
other  expensive  work.  This  may  be  made  entirely  plain  (Plate  XIII), 
or  with  an  0.  G.  The  moldings,  which  are  commoiJy  used  in  the 
door  panels,  may  be  omitted.  Heavy  and  expensive  doors  are  not 
necessary  in  a  cheap  house.  They  may  be  worked  out  of  one  and 
a  lialf  inch  stuff.  All  this,  it  must  be  imderstood,  is  cheap,  and 
would   not  be   fit   for  a  house  like  Plate  I. 

The  Cellar  should  be  provided  with  an  effectual  drain,  when  not 
dug  in  a  gravelly  subsoil.      Closets   and   bins   are   of  great   use  in  it. 


r^ 


FvV^ 


i\-x<^) 


>^^< 


2  I  2 


kM- 


T^M^ 


PARTICULARS.  213 

A  "grout"  mortar,  for  the  floor,  is  made  of  three  parts  gravel  and 
sand  and  one  part  lime,  spread  upon  the  ground  two  or  three 
inches  deep. 

The  Bathing  Room  may  be  supplied  with  warm  water  from  a  boiler 
behind  the  kitchen  fire.  AYhen  the  bathing  tub  is  above  the  level 
of  the  boUer,  a  tank  placed  higher  than  it  will  be  supplied  with 
heated  water  from  the  boUer  by  having  two  pipes  which  will  carry 
on  a  circulation  between  the  boiler  and  tank. 

All  of  these  plans  are  arranged  with  a  scale  of  sixteen  feet  to 
the  inch.  And,^in  the  general  estimate  of  cost,  are  supposed  to  be 
of  wood,  and  to  be  built  in  a  plain,  but  good  way.  It  will  be  safe 
to   add  to  my  estimates,  twenty-five  per  cent,   for  the  eztras. 


OF    GARDENING. 

The  Landscape  Gardener  should  precede  the  Architect  and  Builder : 
as  the  best  site  for  the  house  is  a  matter  of  moment.  This  should 
not  be,  as  it  seems  to  me,  upon  the  highest  point  of  land,  because 
such  portions  are  bleak  —  exposed  on  aU  sides,  furnish  no  relief,  no 
back  ground  to  the  building.  To  command  a  view  —  to  have  the 
advantage  of  shade,  and  shelter,  and  water  —  to  have  the  barn  and 
out  buildings  near,  yet  not  conspicuous;  to  permit  of  easy  drainage 
from  the  cellar,  if  it  is  necessary;  to  be  easy  of  access  from  the 
highway ;  —  these  are  to  be  considered.  Should  a  man  have  it  in 
view  to  build,  he"  should  at  once  have  more  or  less  of  his  planting 
done,  both  shade  and  fruit  trees,  as  they  will  be  so  much  in  advance, 
when  he  comes  to  live ;  and  if  he  should  not  build,  it  is  no  loss.  As 
far  as  practicable  make  divisions  which  are  necessary  about  the  house, 
of  the  ha-ha,  or  blind  fence,  or  of  hedges,  for  which  purpose  the 
Madura  or  Osage  orange  is  believed  to  be  one  of  the  most  desirable 
plants. 

The  Carriage  Way  is  of  consequence.  It  is  idle  to  say  that  it 
should  in   no   case    be  straight.     A   fine,   wide,  shaded   avenue   is   a 


214  rAIlTICU  L  ARS. 

desirable  thing.  But  should  the  distance  be  considerable,  any  person 
will  see  that  it  may  be  monotonons.  At  present  ti)c  carriage  way  is 
allowed  to  take  the  direction  which  tlie  face  of  the  ground  makes  the 
easiest,    if  it   does  not   lead   too  uuicli  out   of  the  course. 

It  is  a  sort  of  vexation  to  liave  the  object  in  your  eye,  and  be 
taken  out  of  your  way  to  get  to  it.  One  should  take  care  tliat  the 
turns  are  not  too  sudden.  The  proper  width  of  this  road  must  vary 
with  the  size  of  tlie  house  and  grounds ;  from  nincf  to  twenty  feet. 
A  depth  of  six  inches  of  gravel  answers  for  carriages  and  light  weights ; 
let  this  come  up  even  with  the  turf,  and  be  slightly  rounded  toward 
the  middle.  Keep  the  edges  of  the  road  and  the  walks  closely  mown, 
and  rolled  smooth. 

In  planting  upon  it,  a  constant  succession  of  one  variety  of  tree 
at  regular  distances  is  also  tame  and  uninteresting.  It  is  desirable 
to  introduce  a  variety,  and  to  arrange  them  in  groups,  having  a 
connection  with  one  another;  each  variety  of  foliage  and  form  in 
harmony,  as  in  contrast  with  the  rest.  (See  Plate  XIY,  supposed  to 
contain  ten  acres.) 

The  Foot  Walks  should  be  four  or  five  feet  wide,  and  sliould,  when 
practicable,  lead  to  some  object  —  a  view — or  a  summer  house  —  or  a 
fine  tree,  and  continue  on  so  that  the  return  may  be  by  another  path. 
If  at  convenient  points,  rough  scats  are  placed,  it  adds  to  their 
pleasures,  for  one  can  rest,  if  necessary. 

For  Foot  Walks,  use  gravel  and  lime ;  three  parts  of  the  latter  to 
one  of  the  former,  and  lay  it  on  two  to  four  inches  deep,  with  a 
shovel :  it  hardens  at  once,  and  relieves  one  of  the  discomfort  of 
walking  for  a  long  time  over  the  shifting  and  rolling  pebbles.  On 
inclined  surfaces  it  does  not  so  easily  wash  away,  and  is  less  liable  to 
be  overrun  witli  grass   and  weeds. 

As  to  the  Flower  Beds,  it  is  desirable,  in  any  place  of  considerable 
extent,  to  set  apart  a  portion  of  ground  for  them ;  of  which  some  of 
the  windows  of  tlie  house  command  a  sight;  and  througli  whicli  one 
might  go  to  a  grapery  or  green  house.  But  a  very  beautifiU  way 
is   to   cut   them   in    circles,  or  otiier  graceful  shapes,    upon  the  edges 


i5 


^ 


^«j 


rtONA/CR   OARDEN 
3o    by6«    »"T 


PARTICULARS.  215 

of    the   walks ;    making  the  soil    rich    and    deep,    ( eighteen  inches. ) 
(  SeePlate  XV. ) 

A  Group  of  Rocks,  partially  covered  with  creepers  and  flowering 
plants,  is  a  pleasing  object.     (  See  center  of  Plate  XV. ) 

Water  is  always  desirable,  in  the  distance  and  at  hand.  In  very 
many  situations,  a  spring,  or  a  small  stream,  will  supply  the  evaporation 
of  a  pretty-sized  pond,  in  which  the  lilies  and  the  water  plants  will 
thrive.     The   deeper   it  can  be  made  the  better. 

Of  Garden  buildings,  or  structures,  the  principal  are  a  green  house, 
or  conservatory,  grape  house,  summer  house,  spring  house,  garden 
seats,   bowers,   grottoes. 

A  cheap  Green  House  can  be  made,  by  building  up  the  walls  with 
inch  boards  nailed  on  each  side  of  scantling,  and  filling  in  the  spaces 
with  tan  or  saw  dust.  The  top  lights  are  all  which  are  necessary, 
some  part  of  which  should  be  made  to  slide,  so  as  to  give  fresh 
air  to  the  plants  in  all  fine  and  warm  days.  A  single  flue,  built  of 
common  brick,  set  edgeways,  three  bricks  high  and  covered  with  the 
same,  ( though  a  thin  tile  is  better, )  with  the  furnace  or  fire  place 
opening  on  the  outside,  to  burn  either  coal  or  wood,  will  warm  a 
small  house.  Such  a  building,  fourteen  feet  by  twenty,  may  be  made 
for  fifty  to  seventy-five  dollars.  The  treatment  is  very  simple  for  all 
of  the  common  tender  plants;  to  keep  the  temperature  as  nearly 
equal  as  possible,  ranging  between  50"  and  70** ;  and  to  give  water 
carefully  and  sparingly,  when  the  plants  are  not  growing,  when  at  rest, 
commonly  in  December. 

But  a  Conservatory  connected  with  the  dwelUng  is  perhaps  prettier, 
as  in  Plate  VIII.  In  this  a  few  large  plants  are  permanent  in  the 
ground.     And   pots   can   be   set   upon   shelves. 

The  details  of  The  Grapery  cannot  be  given  here.  Almost  all 
persons  can  have  access  to  a  work,  or  can  consult  an  experienced  man. 


2l{>  PARTICULARS. 

LANDSCAPE    GARDENING. 

In  the  arrangement  of  the  grounds,  large  or  small,  a  considerable 
degree  of  experience,  qviickness,  and  artistic  feeling,  is  desirable. 
The  purpose  of  the  old  method,  which  is  sometimes  called  the 
"Dutch  manner,"  seems  to  luivo  been  to  show  how  itiuch  man  could 
do  —  how  much  better  the  trees  cut  out  with  shears  were  than 
those  which  God  had  made  to  grow.  Every  thing  in  nature  was 
therefore,  in  particulars  and  details,  forced  so  as  to  become  un- 
natural. 

Landscape  Gardening,  tlie  opposite  of  this,  now  prevails,  and  is 
carried  so  far  as  to  be  thought  by  many  to  be  the  same  in  its 
intentions   as   Landscape   painting. 

The  Landscape  Painter  likes  to  introduce  into  his  foregrounds  a 
decaying  log,  a  few  docks,  and  tiill  muUons:  some  good  broken  rooks 
lie  in  his  roads.  In  the  middle  distance,  men  wUl  be  cutting  down 
his  trees  —  a  broken  bridge  very  likely  appears.  All  of  this  is  op- 
posed  to   Landscape    Gardening. 

The  Gardener  in  place  of  these  will  fill  the  eye  with  clean  flower 
beds  —  fine  shrubs,  an  aloe,  or  a  palm.  He  will  relieve  his  bridge 
from  stiffness  by  planting  near  it  trees.  In  the  place  of  tangled 
grass,   the   edges  of  his   roads  and  walks  will  be  trimmed  and  neat. 

The  true  meaning  of  Landscape  Gardening,  I  thhdc,  is  not  to  make 
a  picture  whicli  in  whole  and  in  detail  would  be  fit  to  transfer  to 
canvass,  but,  to  take  care  of  nature  —  to  show  that  man  has  a 
feeling  for  the  beautiful  —  that  with  a  kindly  hand  ho  has  raised  the 
tree  wliifh  tlic  winds  have  beaten  down  —  tliat  he  has  replaced  the 
vine  wliicli  has  been  torn  from  its  fastenings,  checked  tlie  rampant 
growth  of  some  one  branch,  who  would  stretch  himself  at  the  expense 
of  the  rest.  That  he  has  added  to  the  riches  of  his  own  garden  tlie 
beautiful  and  desirable  of  other  countries. 

This  is  particularly  true  of  the  graceful  manner  of  Gardening. 
Where  rocks  abound,  and  the  combinations  of  nature  are  pit'turos(pie, 
the  manner  of  gardening  would  be  affected  bv  these,  and  the  character 


PARTICULARS.  .^U 

of  the  trees  introduced  would  be  a  greater  proportion  of  tlie  lardies 
evergreens,  and  those  with  pointed  and  irregular  outlines.  Among 
the  rocks  one  would  be  "likely  to  introduce  flowering  plants,  vines,  and 
creepers,   which   were   not   native   to   the   spot. 

In  arranging  walks,  summer  houses,  and  other  particulars  in  Land- 
scape Gardening,  this  seems  to  be  too  little  considered  the  expense — 
compared  with  the  result.  By  a  great  outlay  of  money  and  labor, 
much  effect  is  produced  of  course,  in  some  direction.  I  would  caution 
country  folks  against  doing  this.  It  should  be  borne  in  mind,  tliat 
every  path  made,  and  flower  garden  arranged,  must  have  a  constant 
aftercare,  or  it  becomes  unsightly,  and  disagreeable.  "A  little  of 
what  's  good  and  plenty  of  it,"  is  a  pithy  and  comprehensive  saw; 
but  in  a  small  place,  and  with  a  limited  income,  "  a  little  of  what  's 
good,"  is  as  much  as  should  be  attempted  in  the  outset.  Having  a 
plan  of  the  whole  in  the  beginning,  the  improvements  should  go  on 
as  fast  and  as  far  as  each  man's  incHnation  leads,  and  purse  allows. 

Bear  in  mind  this,  that  in  aU  forms  of  gardening,  nature  works 
constantly — man  does  a  little,  and  she  does  the  rest.  It  is  unfortu- 
tunate  for  a  person  to  live  in  the  idea  that  his  removal  cuts  him  off 
from  the  benefits  of  his  planting  and  watering.  The  planting,  the 
occupation,  is  in  itself  a  benefit,  even  if  he  never  tastes  of  the  fruit, 
or  sits  under  the  shades.  If  his  predecessor  had  not  acted  upon  the 
same  small  theory,  he  would  then  be  enjoying  the  ultimate  benefit  of 
his   labors. 

It  is  true  that  the  labor  of  07ie  hour  in  each  day  will  keep  the 
flower  beds  and  walks,  with  the  exception  perhaps  of  the  carriage 
way  of  a  small  place,  like  the  sketch  following  ( Plate  XIV  J,  in 
neatness  and  order.  But  if  any  one  undertakes,  let  him  or  let  her 
be  regular;   it  must  be  made  a  business,  if   it  is  not  a  pleasure. 


28 


•21^  !'A  R  TirU  LA  KS. 

J' LAN     F01{     GKOUNDS. 

(    SEE    PLATE    IX. ) 

The  liouse,  it  will  be  seen,  is  supptjscd  to  overlook  a  luke  or 
river,  and  the  best  views  are  secured  from  the  windows  of  the 
living  rooms.  Near  to  it,  the  small  flower  garden,  with  beds  cut  in 
the  turf,   will  be  seen ;  beyond  which  are  the  orchards  and   stable. 

The  grounds  are  supposed  to  contain  about  ten  acres;  and  to 
give  greater  variety  to  them,  the  carriage  way  leads  back  to  the 
gate  by  a  route  which  is  hidden  from  the  approach  by  the  form  of 
the  ground,  and  the  trees.  ^Vhon  gravel  is  expensive,  this  double 
road,  as  it  may  be  called,  can  be  dispensed  with.  The  house  is 
seen  from  the  gate,  and  is  then  out  of  sight  in  riding,  uutU  one 
approaches  quite  near  to  it. 

One  of  the  principal  features  here  is  the  continued  shaded  walk, 
which,  commencing  at  the  house,  leads  past  the  spring  house  to  the 
summer  house  (this  commands  a  water  view)  through  the  broken 
ground,  across  a  rustic  bridge,  to  a  cell,  or  grotto,  built  with  rocks, 
continues  on  to  a  shaded  seat,  and  is  lost  in  the  flower  garden.  This 
walk  should  be  four  or  five  feet  wide,  and  will  be  better  if  covered 
with  coarse   mortar   three   inches   deep. 

The  evergreens  are  indicated  by  the  points;  and  the  garden  be- 
tween the   house  and   stable   is  inclosed  with    a  hedge. 

The  arched  roofs  are  the  most  bcautilul  for  conservatories  and  fur 
green  houses,  and  are  said  to  be  chcajier.  Examples  may  be  seen 
at  Mr.  Sargent's,  on  the  Hudson  River,  near  Fishkill  Landing,  and 
at    Mr.  Gray's,    near   Boston. 

Summer  Houses  may  be  of  any  shape.  Octagonal  is  preferred. 
The  diameter  should  not  be  less  than  eight  feet.  If  built  of  the 
bodies  and  branches  of  trees,  these  should  bo  cut  in  tlie  winter, 
when  the  bark  is  fast  to  tlie  wood.  A  covering  iu  the  roof,  of 
bark,  answers  in  place  of  thatch.  The  interiors  are  sometimes  lined 
with    moss,    and    are    very  beautiful.     (See  Plate    XVT.  ) 


i4 


^ 


<!ilu^.^rv^jg^ 


PARTICULARS.  21U 

Garden  Seats  are  easily  and  cheaply  made  with  tlic  branches  of 
trees,  coraiuonly  called  "  Rustic  Work " ;  —  are  the  most  pleasing, 
though  not   the  most  durable.     ( Plate    XVI.  ) 

A  grape  vine   covering   a   tree   may   make  a  shaded  Boicer. 

A  Bee  House,  in  which  the  hives  are  placed,  is  attractive  to  al- 
most all,  beside  being  profitable.  It  should  open  on  one  side,  where 
it  gets  the  morning  sun,  with  doors  which  could  be  closed  in 
winter. 

A  Poultry  House,  large  enough,  say  twelve  by  fifteen  feet,  is 
very  desirable;  having  a  high,  picketed  yard,  inclosed,  through  which 
if  possible  there  should  be  running   water. 

A  Pigeon  House  on  the  roof,  or  in  the  roof  of  the  above,  is  pro- 
fitable; but  is  likely  to  spoil  the  rain  water  if  too  near  the  dwel- 
ling house. 

For  the  Kitchen  Garden  the  first  thing  necessary  to  success  is  a 
well-manured,  rich  soil.  Particularly  for  the  Asparagus,  Sea  Kale, 
and  Rhubarb  beds,  which  should  be  dug  eighteen  inches  deep.  One 
of  the  largest  of  the  Rhubarbs  is  the  Victoria;  for  the  early,  the 
Scarlet,  and  Tobolsk.  Currants,  Gooseberries,  and  Raspberries,  may 
be  planted  to  cover  the  fences;  they  should  be  thinned  out  of  all 
old  and  dead  wood,  and  of  many  of  the  soft,  sucker  shoots.  For 
most  of  the  details  of  the  Kitchen  Grarden,  see  Bridgemans  Gar- 
dener's Assistant;  also,  Buist's   cheap   and   portable   books. 

Connected  with  this  subject,  a  Root  House  may  be  mentioned.  It 
should  be  made  in  a  hiU  side,  and  so  below  the  surface  as  to  be 
secure  from  frost.  Where  cellar  room  is  not  in  plenty,  this  is  par- 
ticularly necessary,  and  it  is  preferable  for  many  vegetables,  as  they 
do  not  wilt,  and  they  can  also  easily  be   covered  in  sand  or  earth. 

For  a  plan  of  Ice  House,  see  page  54. 

A  proper  room  for  Tools,  and  for  working  in  bad  weather,  is  ne- 
cessary. 

For  the  Orchards.  It  is  said  "it  is  not  worth  the  trouble  to  try 
to  raise  Peaches,"  or  Pears,  or  Plums,  or  Cherries,  or  this,  or  that. 
It   is  quite  true,  but  is  there  any  thing   else  which  it  is  any  more 


'jiiO  PARTICULARS. 

desirable  to  do'i  Trees  are  thought  to  be  very  ungrateful  becaufie, 
when  stuck  into  the  ground,  they  do  not  grow,  and  tlirive,  and  bear, 
and  be  quite  proof  against  insects,  and  frosts,  and  breaks,  and 
bruises. 

l*lant  trees  in  well-pulverized  soil,  and  rather  above,  than  below, 
the  surface,  raising  the  earth  around  them  a  little,  as  they  sink 
some,  and  do  not  thrive  when  the  roots  are  to«»  deep.  For  all  trees 
a  strong  wash  of   soft  soap  in  the  spring  ia  very  beneficial. 

The   Apple  is   quite   hardy   in   most   sections. 

The  Pear  is  subject  to  the  fir  blight,  which  is  believed  to  result 
from  the  severe  action  of  the  winters.  It  is  to  some  extent  pro- 
tected against  this,  by  planting  in  rather  poor  soil,  so  that  the  growth 
will   be  slow  and   strong. 

The  Cherry  is  also  subject  in  tlie  West  to  this  bliglit.  In  all 
cases  the  branches  showing  it  should  be  cut  otf  at  once,  to  protect 
the   rest  of  the   circulation. 

The  Peach  is  liable  to  injury  from  the  white  worm,  at  the  root. 
The  most  eflfcctual  way  is  to  examine  two  or  three  times  a  year,  and 
search  them  out  with  a  knife.  When  the  trees  get  advanced,  if  the 
bark  is  kept  smooth  and  clean,  they  arc  not  so  subject  to  their 
attack. 

The  Plum  is  stung  in  its  fruit  by  the  Curculio,  in  some  places  to 
such  an  extent  as  to  be  quite  useless.  The  eggs  deposited  in  the 
punctures  hatch  into  the  fly  after  three  weeks,  and  go  on  with  their 
laying,  so  that  if  left  alone  the  fruit  is  necessarily  aU  destroyed. 
Keep  the  plum  trees  in  an  inclosurc  with  pigs  and  fowls,  who  eat 
up   the   punctured   fruit. 

The   same   is   true   of   the    Nectarine. 

And   to   a   less   degree   of  the   Apricot. 

The  Quince  is  quite  hardy,  and  an  excellent  fruit;  it  will  thrive 
in   low   grounds. 

Grapes  should  be  planted  in  rich  and  mellow  ground ;  —  may  I)e 
grown  on  arbors,  or  to  stakes. 


i6 


•?(,,,„,,      t,o,jJ 


P  A  RT I G  U  L  A  R  S  . 


•221 


In  Vineyard  culture,  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio,  as  high  as  a 
thousand  gallons  of  wine  have  been  made  from  the  acre  of  Catawba 
grape.  In  some  seasons,  however,  it  fails  entirely,  from  frosts,  or 
the  rotting  of  the  fruit.  A  common  yield  is  three  to  five  hundred 
gallons,  in   good  seasons. 


Following  this,  is  a  list  for  three  hundred  good  sorts  of  fruit  trees. 
When  near  a  market,  more  of  the  early  varieties  will  be  profitable: 


Winter— 

7  Esopus  Spitzenberg, 

5  Roxbury,  or  Putnam  Russet, 
5  Jonatban, 
5  Baldwin, 

8  Newtown  Pippin, 
5  Wells  Sweet, 

5  Rhode  Island  Greening. 

5  Bellflower, 

5  Pearmain, 

5  Chandler, 

5  Golden  Ball, 

5  Pryor  Red  (Western), 

3  Campfield  (Sweet), 

3  Ladies'  Sweet, 


FOR  ONE  HUNDRED  APPLE  TREES. 
25  to  30  feet  distant. 
Fall— 


3  Fall  Pippin, 
5  Golden  Russet, 
3  Rambo, 
3  Porter. 

Summer — 
3  Sweet  Bough, 
5  Harvest, 
3  Strawberry. 

2  Lady, 

2  Yellow  Siberian  Crab. 


FOR  ONE  HUNDRED  PEACH  TREES. 
15  feet  distant. 


5  Cole's  Early, 
5  Early  Rareripe, 

4  Prince's  Rareripe, 

5  Early  Roj-al  George, 
5  Early  York, 

5  Crawford's  Early  Melocoton, 
10  George  IV, 
5  Morris  White, 
5  Morris  Red, 
5  Yellow  Rareripe, 


3  Snow  Peach, 
5  Red  Cheek  Melocoton, 
5  Columbia, 
3  Kenrick's  Heath, 
5  President, 
5  Grosse  Mignonne, 
10  Heath  Cling, 
5  Lemon  Cling, 
5  Large  White  Cling, 
5  Oldmixon  Cling. 


•J22 


PARTICULARS. 


Early  — 

1  Madeleine, 

2  Bloodgood, 

2  Dearborn's  Seedling, 

3  Barllett. 
FaU  — 

2  Seckle, 

2  St.  Michael,  or  Virgalien, 

2  Fordante  d'Automne, 


FOR  THIRTY  PEARS. 
20/fr<  dvttant. 

2  Capiaumout, 
2  Urbaniste. 
Late  — 
2  Beurre  Diel, 
2  Passe  Col  mar, 
2  Glout  Morceau, 
2  Ea.ster  Beurre, 
2  Columbian, 
2  Winter  Nelis. 


2  Belle  de  Choisey, 
2  American  Heart, 
2  Bigarreau  de  Mai, 
2  Bigarreau  Napoleon, 
2  Black  Eagle, 
2  Downer's  Red, 


FOR  TWENTY  CHERRIES. 
25  feet  distant. 
2  Elton, 

2  Black  Tartarian, 
1  Early  White  Heart, 
1  May  Duke, 
1  Graffion, 
1  Early  May,  or  Early  Richmond. 


FOR  TWELVE  PLUMS. 
15  feet  distant. 
2  Blocker's  Gage,  2  Jefferson. 

2  Coe's  Golden  Drop,  2  Washington. 


2  Imperial, 


2  Moorpark, 

1  Musch-musch, 


15  Portugal, 


1  Boston, 

I  Scarlet  Cling, 


2  Duane's  Purple. 

FOR  FIVE  APRICOTS. 
1  Breda, 
1  Turkey, 

FOR  THIRTY  QUINCES. 
12/ee<  distant. 
15  Orange. 

FOR  THREE  NECTARINES. 
1  New  White. 


Catawba,  Wine  and  Table, 
Isabella,  Do. 


GRAPES. 

Lenoir,  for  Table, 
Ohio,         Do. 


PARTICULARS.  223 


SHADE  AND  ORNAMENTAL  TREES,  etc. 

The  following  list  is  given  —  not  as  a  complete  one,  .but  as  con- 
taining,  mostly,    such   things   as   can    easily   be   had. 

Sugar  Maple,         Acer  saccharinum. 
Scarlet  Maple.  "    rubrum. 

Silver-leaf  Maple.     "    dasijcarpum. 
Spanish   Chestnut.        Castanea. 
American  Chestnut.  "       vesca. 

European  Ash.       Fraxinus  excelsior. 
American  Ash.  "         Americana. 

Weeping  Ash.  "        pendula. 

Three-thorned  Acacia.     Gleditschia  triacanihos. 
Tulip  Tree.     Liriodendron  tulipifera. 
European  Larch.     Larix  Europea. 
American  Sycamore.     Platanus  occidentalis. 
Lombardy  Poplar.     Populus  dilitata. 
Silver-leaf  Aspen.  "       alba. 

Weeping  Willow.        Salix  babylonica. 
Ring-leaf  Willow.  "     annularus. 

American  Linden.     Tilia  glabra. 
American  White  Elm.     Ulmus  Americana. 
White  Horse  Chestnut,     ^sculus  hippocastanus. 
Kentucky  Coffee.     Crymnocladus  Canadensis. 
American  White  Oak.     Quercus  alba. 
Overcup  Oak.  "       macrocarpa. 

English  Oak.  "        robus. 

American  Cypress.     Taxodium  distichum. 
Magnolia.     Magnolia  acuminata. 

"       tripetila. 

"       macrophylla. 

"        soulangiana. 

"        conspicua. 

"        grandiflora. 
Osage  Orange.     Madura  aurantiaca. 
Red  Bud.     Cercis  Canadensis. 
White  Dogwood.     Cornus  Florida. 
Purple  Beech.     Fagus  sylvatica,  atro  rubens. 
Pawlonia  Imperialis. 

If  trees  are  taken  from  the  woods,  get  them  from  open  and 
exposed  situations.  If  taken  from  a  thicket,  they  are  very  likely 
to    die. 


224  PARTICULARS. 

HARDY   SHRUBS. 

It   is   a   common    feeling,   tliat    it    is    desirable    to    have   a   great 

number     of    kinds;    and    so    it     is,    when     all    are     beautiful,  —  not 

otherwise,    for    ornamental   uses. 

White  Fringe  Tree.     Chinnanthus  Virpiniea. 

Laburiiuin,  or  Golden  Chain.     Cytiosus  laburnum. 

Hawthorn  Pink.  Cralegus  oxycauttta. 

Hawthorn  Double  White.  "       Jlore  plena. 

Hawthorn  Evergreen.  "       pyracantha. 

American  Strawberry  Tree.    Euonymus  Americanus. 

Silver  Cell  Tree.     Halesia  tetraptera. 

Althea  Frutex,  Variegated  Rose  of  Sharon.     Hybiscus  syricus. 

Magnolia.     M.  glauca. 

Fragrant  Syringe.     Philadelphus  coronarius. 

Hop  Tree.     Ptelia  trifoliata. 

Venetian  Sumac,  or  Purple  Fringe  Tree.     Rhus  cotinus. 

Silvery  Shepherdia,  or  Buffalo  Berry.     Shepherilia  argentia. 

White  and  Purple  Persian  Lilac.     Syringa  Fersica. 

Sweet-scented  Shrub.     Calycanthus  Jloridus. 

Scarlet  Japan  Quince.     Cydonia  Japonica. 

Pink  Mezercon.     Daphne  mczereon. 

Upright  Honeysuckle.     Loniccra  tartarica. 

Rose  Acacia.     Robina  hispida. 

Sorb-leaf  Spirea.     Spirea  sorlnfolia. 

St.  Peter's  Wreath.     "       hifpericifolia. 

Sweet  Berberry.     Berberis  dulcis. 

Scarlet  Currant.     Ribes  sanguineum. 

HARDY  EVERGREEN  TREES  AND  SHRUBS. 

Norway  Spruce  Fir.     Abies  com/nunis. 
Balsam  Fir.  "     balsaviea. 

Hemlock  Fir.  "     Canadensis. 

White  Pine.       Pinus  sirobus. 
Scotch  Pine.  "      sijlvestris. 

English  Yew.     Taxus  baccata. 
American  Arborvita;.     Thuya  occidentalis. 
Chinese  Arborvitse.  "      orientalis. 

Virginia  Cedar.    Juniperus  Virginiana. 

SHRUBS. 

Swedish  Juniper.     Juniperus  succica. 
Tree  Box.     Buxus  arborescens. 
American  Holly.     Ilex  npaca. 
Kalmia.     Kalinia  latifolia. 
American  Rhododendron.     R.  viarinium. 
Purple  Rhododendron.     R.  ponticum. 


PARTICULARS.  225 

CLIMBERS. 


Honeysuckles,  Monthly.     Caprifolium  belgicum. 

"  Coral.  "  rubruin. 

"  Yellow.  "         Jlauuiu. 

"  Chinese.  "  Sinensis. 

Clematis,  Sweet-scented.     Clematis  Jlammuln. 

"        Siebolds.  "        siebodii. 

Wistaria  Purple.     Wistaria  sinensis. 
Dutchman's  Pipe.     Aristolochia  sipho. 
Trumpet  Creeper.     Bignonia  radicans. 
Virginia  Creeper.     Ampelopsis  quinquifolia 
Evergreen  Ivy.     Hedcra  helix. 


LIST  OF  FIFTY  ROSES. 

The   ground   cannot  well   be   too   rich   for   them. 

Hardy   and  beautiful,    blooming  in   June. 

Microphylla  Rosea ;    Pink. 

"  Maria  Leonida  ;    White  creamy. 

Double  Blush  Sweet  Briar. 
Imperial  Provins  ;    Deep  rose. 
Brennus ;    Brilliant  red. 
Cerisette ;    Bright  scarlet. 
George  the  Fourth  ;    Rich  crimson. 
La  Tourterelle ;    Changes,  lilac. 
York  and  Lancaster ;    Striped. 
Ne  Plus  Ultra  ;    Cherry  color. 
Hybrid  Blanche ;    Pure  white. 
General  Thiers ;    Very  dark. 
Harrison  Double  Yellow. 

MOSS  ROSES. 

Blush  Moss. 

Crested  Moss  ;    Rosy  pink. 

Luxembourg  Moss  ;    Bright  red. 

Lencele ;    Scarlet. 

Quatre  Saisons ;    White,  perpetual. 

Perpetual  White  ;    Fine  buds. 

PERPETUAL   AND  REMONTANT. 
Quite   hardy   in   the   latitude   of  Philadelphia,   Pennsylvannia. 

Du  Roi,  or  Lee's  Crimson. 
Aubernon  ;  Rosy  carmine. 
Clementin  Duval ;    Bright  pink. 

29 


22G  PARTICULARS. 

Comptc  de  Paris  ;    Ros7j  purple. 
Lady  Fordwick  ;    Rosy  piiik. 
Louis  Buonaparte  ;    LiUic. 
Edward  Jess  ;    Changeable  crimson. 
Madame  Laffay  ;    Rich,  light  crimson. 
Maresclial  Soult ;    BriglU  rosy  purple. 
Prince  Albert ;    Rich  crimson. 
Rivers;    Brilliant  crimson. 

BOURBONS  AND   OTHER  VARIETIES. 

nALF-HAUDY. 

Gloirc  de  France,  or  Montlily  Cabbage  ;    Deep  rose. 
Madame  Desprez  ;    Bright  rose. 
Queen  of  Bourbons  ;    Waxy  blush. 

NOISETTES. 

Champneyana  ;    Rosy  %rhite. 
Jauno  Desprez  ;    Rosy  yellow. 
Laniarke ;    Yellow-white. 
Solfataro ;    Bright  sulphur. 

CHINESE     AND     TEA-SCENTED. 

Mrs.  Bosanquet ;    Large  blush. 
Queen  of  Lombard)' ;    Bright  red. 
Barbot ;    Creamy  blush. 
Devoniensis ;    Creamy  white. 
Ilymenca  ;    Fine  white. 
Lyounais  ;    Pale  Pink. 
Princess  Maria  ;    Waxy  rose. 
Triumph  of  Luxenibocrg;    Rosy  huff. 

CLIMBING    ROSES. 

HARDY. 

Ayrsliirc  ;    Blush. 

Boursault ;    Purple. 

Multiflora  ( Worthington's);    Deep  rose. 

Queen  of  Prairies  ;    Fine  pink. 

Baltimore  Belle  ;    Delicate  iphile. 


